


A thousand teeth and yours among them

by balefully



Category: One Direction (Band), The Voice (Ireland) RPF
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Knotting, M/M, Mating, Mental Health Issues, Party Drugs, Recreational Drug Use, Size Difference, Size Kink, Vibrators, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-04
Updated: 2015-04-04
Packaged: 2018-03-21 04:30:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3677538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/balefully/pseuds/balefully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One of Niall's best mates, Bressie, has secretly been a werewolf since long before Niall ever knew him. In the quiet restlessness post-On The Road Again, Niall returns home to Ireland to decompress, to write music, and to reconnect with his friends and family away from the busy crush of London and the band. A tumultuous situation ends with Bressie accidentally losing control and biting Niall, turning him into a werewolf and changing everything forever. Wracked with guilt and a weighty sense of duty, Bressie takes Niall under his wing to help ease the transition from boy to wolf as much as he's able—it's the least he can do after effectively stealing Niall's entire life away from him at the pinnacle of his career. What he doesn't count on is the inexorable urge not only to help Niall navigate the ins and outs of the wolf but also to mate him, to keep him as Bressie's own. As Niall must deal with returning to life with One Direction and discovering who he is anew, he and Bressie must also deal with their growing feelings for each other, and the ever-present spectre of the wolf ruling their lives and love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A thousand teeth and yours among them

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you forever to [becka](http://archiveofourown.org/users/becka/pseuds/becka) for the stellar beta and handholding, and to [brokendrums](http://archiveofourown.org/users/brokendrums) for the Irish-pick! Title from "In a Week" by Hozier.
> 
> Written for the [One Direction Big Bang](http://1d-bigbang.livejournal.com/). Art by the glorious [zaynscremebrulee](http://zaynscremebrulee.tumblr.com), whose art blog can be found at [zaynscremebruleeart](http://zaynscremebruleeart.tumblr.com). Thank you so much for your hard work and for being just a joy to collaborate with!
> 
> For those who are unfamiliar, [this is John Henry Ryan](https://instagram.com/p/r3VZysSJrt/) and [this is David Soutar](https://instagram.com/p/vGXMOAMyNd/).

*

It's the morning after the last day of tour, and Niall's buzzing, lying across the back seat of the car driving him home from the Motorpoint Arena, Basil up front. There's intense traffic on the motorway, rush hour as always, so he has plenty of time to mull over how everything ended. Everyone was excited and happy after the show, like it was the last day of school before summer holidays. A tinge of sadness muted the joy, though—maybe more like summer hols just got over and no one wants to go back to the real world. There's a party to celebrate the end of On The Road Again tonight at ONE in Mayfair, and Niall's glad to be able to extend the rush for a bit longer, at least.

When he gets back to his place and lets himself in, none of the alarms beeps. His chest tightens for a split second before he hears his PA, Gemma, on the phone in the kitchen. "Oi, welcome home!" she shouts across the house. Niall shuffles into the kitchen from the hall, noting how everything smells in a way that's only possible after being gone a long time. Gemma grins over the counter at him, waving with her phone for a second. The security cameras are all on and she's re-arming the alarms with her other hand, punching at the keypad on the wall. She saw him coming, turned them off to let him in. He shouldn't have worried.

"Got a hot meal ready for me now I'm back from my business trip, honey?" Niall says with a smile, putting on an American sitcom dad voice. "Gee whiz!"

Gemma shakes her head; she's too sweet for an eyeroll or to flip him off, although the sentiment is obvious. Her blond bob swings gently back and forth, and she pushes ineffectually at the sleeves of her too-big jumper which keep slipping down her arms. She's in the middle of chopping up vegetables for a salad, making Niall's line seem even funnier. He laughs and sidles over to the fridge for a beer. It's never too early to pre-game, plus his throat is dry and sticky, though he couldn't say why.

Gemma hangs up and slips her phone into her pocket. "Want some? Got more than I need."

Niall holds his arms out for a hug. "I'll order something in. Not really in a salad mood." Gemma gives him a hug, prim and perfunctory. He'll turn her into a real hugger eventually. "Meat. I need a big hunk of meat."

"I bet you do," Gemma says, and it's so deadpan Niall honestly isn't sure if she's being cheeky or not. He laughs anyway and takes his beer down the hall to flop gratefully onto his bed. The bunks on the bus become a weird sort of home during UK tours, but they're too small and close and Niall would really rather not, if it's all the same to everyone else. It's rough, sometimes, having to miss out by going to a hotel room when the lads are all having the craic on the bus. At least when they're in Britain his mates are in his same time zone and he can give them a ring for some company.

"Speak of the devil," Niall says as Willie pads in from down the hall. He's got sockfeet and his hair is pushed up everywhere, a pillow imprint on his face. Niall tips to the side to peer around him, and sure enough, Jordan's slumping in after him, just as sleep-bedraggled. "Aren't you two a sight? Layabouts who wake up at noon, psh."

Jordan, bless her, flips Niall off. "Shut up," she says, but she comes over to give Niall a big hug anyway. She smells like stale booze and sleep and something a little sharper.

"I won't ask," Niall says, huffing out a laugh.

"Got in at nine AM," Willie says. "Was out since nine last night." His voice sounds like he was dragged through a shredder—that's what after-hours clubs will do, Niall knows as well as anyone. He crows in Willie's ear just to be an arse and Willie knocks him one around the head, wrestling him weakly into a headlock. Niall lets him, then fights back a bit, glad for the outlet.

"Unfair, unfair!" groans Jordan, and she drags Willie away, absconding to the couch. Niall laughs and goes back to the kitchen to make them tea.

"You're getting too old for all that, Will," Niall says when he clunks the mugs down on coasters.

"Don't I know it," Jordan says, grinning tiredly at Niall. He's glad they're here, wouldn't ever want to come home after tour to an empty house.

*

ONE is the slickest place in town by far—Niall's only been here one other time, and it was for the X-Factor afterparty early last year. Back then it was lit in chic reds and purples, but now it's all gold, glitzy and bathed in champagne neon and disco ball sparkles. Harry had been the only other one of the lads to come last time, Kendall on his arm whilst she was in town for work. Niall had brought Barbara along as well. She was a laugh, a mate who liked quickies up against the kitchen counter as much as Niall did, and her sweet button nose and saucy smile made Niall's hips feel loose and the back of his neck itchy. No one looked more at home in swank clubs than she did, despite the fact that she'd rather be rolling around on a beach skinny-dipping in Tulum, given her druthers. So would Harry, probably.

He's gone with some McQueen Caroline gave him—a t-shirt with a silver and black print, a relaxed jacket. He's got some ripped black skinnies that may have been Zayn's originally, and a pair of suede Chelsea boots with silver goring he'd never have been caught dead in a year ago. His hair's kind of a mess, never able to do it properly himself, but at least he tried.

He's come alone tonight, besides Basil of course, and honestly it's better this way. He is the perpetual single pringle. Harry's with Nadine; Liam's got Sophia; El and even Pez have made it out to Louis and Zayn's utter delight.

"Gonna take one for the team?" Liam asks, waggling his eyebrows next to Niall at the bar. They've closed the place down for the party, of course, but it's still loud and thrumming with people since the entire crew's invited, the label, friends and family and their friends and family. It's a bit of a hectic mess.

"One what?" Niall laughs, draining his vodka orange as soon as the bartender plunks it down in front of him and motioning for another with a big smile. It's open bar, but he tips a tenner anyway.

"Mate, you're the only one without an old lady! Gotta pull someone super hot so the rest of us can live victoriously through you, haven't you?"

Niall's pretty sure Liam means _vicariously_ , but he's not a hundred percent certain so he just goes with it. "Don't think I'd go so far as to say Nadine's—"

Louis groans from Niall's other side. "Come off it, Nialler, you know what he means."

Niall laughs and slaps each of them on the back. "I do. Also, I saw a girl over in the VIP area earlier, that little one with the dark hair—"

"Yeah, that's Sylvia," Liam says, leaning in like they're coconspirators. Louis leans in from the other side so he can hear, and their foreheads are practically touching Niall's. "Sister of one of Lou's assistants, I think? Soph introduced me but I couldn't tell you a thing she said about her."

"Lottie's mates with her," Louis says, nodding sagely. "She's got good taste, y'know."

Niall suddenly feels how crowded the room is, how stuffy. He puts his foot up on the rung of the barstool he's standing next to, bouncing his knee so he can feel the frayed fabric around the purposeful tear in his jeans pulling apart, infinitesimally more with every jerk of his thigh. "Up for it though, you think?"

"Mate, who isn't these days?" Liam grins and his eyes crinkle away into happy nothingness. Louis pinches at Niall's nipples.

"Our Niall certainly is," he coos. Niall slaps his hands away with a laugh and takes a healthy slug of the fresh vodka orange in front of him.

"Guess I'll try it on then, shall I?" Louis and Liam him shove him unceremoniously in the direction of the VIP area, Niall shuffling to stay upright.

On the way over to the corner where probably-Sylvia's ensconced in a white leather couch with a harem of other girls, someone on the dance floor grabs Niall by the belt loop and hauls him in. For a split second Niall's about to swing around and sock them straight in the eye, but before he even gets a chance to see his assailant, he can tell it's Harry. There's just something about him that Niall recognises as soon as he's pulled close enough into Harry's orbit.

Instead of lashing out, Niall turns around and seamlessly blends the motion into a big hug, arms tight around Harry's ribs over the sheer film of his white silk shirt. "Congrats on a successfully completed tour," Harry says, sincere and bright-eyed with something Nadine no doubt brought along with her. Niall grins and knocks Harry a kiss to the hand, just for the hell of it.

"Same, Harold." He's got a flight booked for the next morning, and Niall will miss him when he's gone, though he'd never say. Harry's life is Harry's life. The days of Mullingar visits and golf games that end in a pile on the eighteenth green are past, and that's okay.

Harry dances with him a bit, all floppy limbs and shape-throwing, and Niall laughs and dances along, vodka orange still clutched in one hand, the last remnants of their stage games draining out of him like water from the bath faucet after the shower plunger is pushed down. It's time to get out and dry off.

Niall extricates himself when David Soutar steps in. He slurps the last of his drink and clunks it on a passing tray of wine glasses as he finally gets to the VIP area—not really being used as a VIP area so much tonight, since the whole place is pretty much a VIP area. Sylvia's sitting with a couple other girls—the group seems to have thinned some while Niall was waylaid by Harry. He plunks down on the sofa across from them, ankles crossed and tucked back under the bottom edge. "Hi there," he says brightly, snagging a glass of water from the cluster of them next to the water pitcher on the table. "Having a good time, girls?"

They all enthuse that they are, and he asks where they're from and what they do, grinning at them all the while. "Sylvia, right? I'm Niall," he says after a bit, scooting closer to her. Her friends give each other loaded glances and subtle smiles.

"Yeah," she says, a little surprised. She's wearing an emerald green romper, strapless, hair loose and wavy over her bare shoulders. She has dark brown eyes and a strong jaw, pale skin with a cute dust of freckles. Her tits look like they'd be perfect handfuls. The booties she's wearing have wedge heels that would probably make her taller than Niall when they stand up, even though she's tiny.

"I asked Liam," Niall says, by way of explanation.

"You were asking after me, were you?" she says with a pleased smile. She sits forward, uncrosses her legs. The vibe is definitely in Niall's favour. He nods, grinning, and they exchange small-talk. She looks at him for a long moment, brow furrowed and lips a bit pouted. "Don't suppose you want to come party with me at my hotel afterwards?" she asks eventually, and downs the drink she's holding, something whisky-based.

"Why wouldn't you suppose that?" Niall asks, giving her a crooked smile, slipping into flirty mode. It's easy but doesn't feel quite right, like a jumper that’s shrunk in the wash.

Sylvia laughs. "Aren't you knackered from the tour?"

Niall shrugs, then brushes idly at his sideburns. "I'm here, aren't I? I'd love to continue this later, if you're up for it." He laughs.

"Alright then," Sylvia says, beaming and sitting up with her chest puffed out like they've just signed a business deal. It makes her breasts look particularly pert. "Gimme your phone?" Niall hands it over, keeping a wary eye on her as she clicks straight into the contacts to put herself in. "Let me know when you're ready to leave, yeah? In case we lose each other."

They don't lose each other, though Sylvia gets up to dance with some friends and Niall ends up drunkenly smoking a cigarette with Zayn tucked in the employees-only hallway. "Cold as a motherfuck outside, bro," Zayn had said. "Not about to stand in the bloody back alley, am I?"

Niall's in the bathroom when he finds Sylvia, head leaned heavily against his forearm on the wall over the urinal as he pisses like a racehorse. He hears giggling and the slam of the disabled cubicle at the end of the row. Sylvia falls out of it with one of her friends from earlier—Zoe, Niall wants to say—and narrowly manages to catch herself on the wall without biting it. "Oops," she says, and taps her nose like Santa Claus.

That's the last thing Niall really remembers before he ends up balls deep in Sylvia. She's on her hands and knees, a plush down duvet spread over the floor of her hotel room. Niall's kneeling behind her, the coke she brought making his ears pound and his teeth tingle. His tongue tastes like paracetamol and orange juice from concentrate, but his dick feels like he's pushing through sun-warmed caramel. She turns to look back at him, spine curved and gorgeous under her skin, arse two perfect more-than-handfuls where he's holding her open around his cock. He can see how pink her cunt is, how drippy-wet and soft after having two orgasms already. Her eyes are so dark. Her lips are so red. It's like they're animals. "Thanks, Sylvia," he says, right before he comes, and she smiles, mouth open, teeth bright, eyes on him. It doesn't calm the buzzing in his tight lungs, and he doesn't fall asleep at all that night, even though he's exhausted.

By the time Niall's made his way home and had a nice long soak in his jacuzzi tub to steam the coke sweats out of his pores, it's afternoon, and the rest of the lads have scattered to the four winds. Their Whatsapp group is busy, everyone checking in with their next moves. It always starts that way at the end of a tour, but by about six weeks into break pretty much no one mentions their plans anymore, the group lying dormant until time to coordinate arrival schedules for rehearsals for the next go 'round.

Niall just types a football emoji, the muscly arm, and the barbell—he's heading down to Cobham tomorrow to meet with Eva for PT and to work out with the Chelsea lads. His physical therapy check-ins are more sporadic these days. When he's home, it calms him to go back, to make sure his body is up to scratch, everything still where it's supposed to be, doing what it's supposed to do.

Ellie texted him, too. She has a one-off show at KOKO to raise money for Teenage Cancer Trust and wants to know if he'll be there, if he wants to bring anyone. He will be there, and he will be bringing someone—but not a date, just Basil, per usual.

When he goes, he wears a new pair of boots with a gold zip up the back and new trousers with leather knees that Harry had once said would look good on him. His t-shirt has gold colour blocking up the sides, and he's about to leave the house in his black Lakers hat but Jordan snatches it off his head before he can get out the door. "Trust me," she says with a wry crook of her mouth as she fiddles with his hair. "It ruins everything." Willie laughs.

*

The days blend together at first. It's a blessing not to have any plans, to spend an entire week without ever leaving his house, without even moving save from the couch to the kitchen and back again. It's not long, though, before restlessness creeps into Niall's bones and he gets sick of his lethargy. He feels greasy, slow—dull.

The way to jumpstart himself is a deep-clean of the whole house. He starts with de-cluttering and sorting through his closets for clothes he doesn't wear anymore to give to Oxfam, and random bits and bobs to send on to the label for them to give out to causes asking for auction donations. Then he moves to hoovering, and since his house is a ranch style, he can go from one end clear through to the other. Buffing and polishing the wood floors, next. Dusting. Upholstery cleaning in the living room and his study. Flipping on the oven's self-cleaner while he takes all the food out of the fridge to scrub the shelves and drawers. The only room he skips is Willie's.

He gets sweaty and sore from the exertion, which is exactly what he wanted, losing himself in tedium and the simple work of it, mind as blissfully clean and scrubbed as the countertops. When he's done the place looks pristine, sterile.

It should make him feel better, but something still isn't quite right. He lights a candle to warm the place back up, to make it smell like cinnamon instead of Dettol. After two days of concerted effort, it's good enough.

*

The London Irish Crew are eager to restart their Sunday Roasts once Niall's back in town. He's got six different texts off them trying to sort out the first date they're all available. Eventually they all wind up in the Stag's Head together, clustered around a worn wooden table in the back corner. There's brocade curtains hanging around each window, and there are couches in worn red velvet even though the chairs they're sitting on are upholstered in brown vinyl that's meant to look like leather. A hum of low conversation buzzes through the main bar area, and Niall feels cheerful and at home ensconced at the far end of the table, pride of place at the head like a loving father looking down the line at all his rowdy kids.

"Sure, I dunno what you were thinking, but it was probably the tequila and not you," Laura says to Angela. They're on Niall's right, discussing a disastrous hookup from last weekend.

"And then I said to him, _If you don't get out, I'm calling your wan down the road!_ And I've never seen a man move so fast. Fair play to him!" shouts Mikey, from the opposite head of the table. He's gesticulating wildly at Eoghan and Greg, who're laughing their faces off.

There's not an empty seat at the table—in fact, they've crammed about four more chairs in than there were supposed to be—but there may as well be, for the palpable space Bressie's absence has left. He hardly ever makes it over to London anymore, two or three times a year, tops. Niall can't remember the last Sunday Roast he attended. These days he's only over for special occasions—V-Fest, Niall's 21st at Shoreditch. Niall can't help but be a bit smug that it seems like Bressie only comes over for his events anymore, though probably there's a perfectly good explanation that doesn't involve Niall at all. It still feels like Bressie makes the extra effort just for him.

Niall knocks back several pints, plus he goes in on a few rounds of shots with the rest of the crew. It's midnight before he even realises it, and he's dancing up against Natalia's side with Mikey's arms draped over his shoulders in a tiny private room in the back of Cafe de Paris. It's almost pitch black, and the purple floor-level glow of lights lining the edges of the room allow him to see everyone from the thighs down, but above that it's not much more than a blur of rotating yellow spotlights blending everyone's faces together. That could also be the booze, or the bump of Laura's K he did an hour ago. If it was even an hour ago—time slips by in fits and starts. He's sweaty and there's a water bottle tucked in the pocket of his jeans, half empty now. He's not really sure where his jumper's got to, but knowing himself, he probably shoved it at Willie when he was ready to dance.

The heavy vacant place where Bressie should be is still stinging, and he prods at it like he would the inflamed gum around a pulled tooth. He pulls out his phone.

 _were u at big face_ , he texts. He puts a plane emoji and the fancy question mark.

Bressie doesn't text back. Niall drinks the rest of his water and rests his head on Natalia's sweaty shoulder, still dancing. It's the middle of the night, and Bressie's a responsible man, unlike Niall. He's probably asleep.

The next morning, Niall's wrung out and miserable. He can't remember the last time he was this hungover—it wasn't nearly this bad even after the OTRA wrap party.

He has a missed call from Bressie, and it takes a moment of confusion to find the text he sent last night, embarrassment flooding him. He groans and shoves his face into his pillow, snuggles deeper into his electric blanket, spread over his mattress instead of under his duvet as usual.

He wakes up three or four more times, shuffling miserably to and from the en suite to fill up his water glass each time, retching fruitlessly into the sink because he can't bear bending over the toilet when he feels like he's about to puke. It's dark outside the patio doors on the other side of his room before he finally feels like he can get up and stay up, and maybe even keep down a piece of plain toast and some tea.

No one else seems to be home, a blessing since Niall looks like refried shit and would rather die than speak to anyone or worry about his wildly misbehaving digestive tract, no doubt pummeled by the Everclear and amphetamines. He makes himself a cup of lemon and ginger Twinings, and pops half a bagel in the toaster.

The telly's on, muted, set to ITV Sports. Niall unmutes it but keeps the volume low, catching up on the scores and sitting with his head cradled gingerly in his hands while he waits for his bagel. Finally the toaster dings. As he's wandering back over to the kitchen to grab it, his phone rings from his jogging bottoms, swinging in his loose knit pocket. It's Bressie again.

"Mmm," Niall says, answering with his lips pressed together as he gets a saucer down for his bagel.

"Alright, chief?" Bressie asks, and he sounds annoyingly chipper.

"Not really," Niall croaks.

"Ah sure, you're bit worse for wear after last night, are you?" Bressie says with a fond, gentle laugh.

"You could say that," Niall mumbles, and takes a bite of his bagel. It's too hot, but he's lost the will to live and pizza palate is the least of his troubles.

"Figured, what with the text," Bressie says, and his gentle tone sounds more concerned than anything, now. "Why'd you go so hard, then? On the beers, or—?"

"On the beers and anything else I could reach," Niall says with a humourless laugh. "Blame Laura."

"Everything in moderation," Bressie says, and from anyone else it'd be patronising and make Niall want to puke directly on them. From Bressie, it just sounds like he cares, and Niall suddenly doesn't feel quite so murderous.

"Shoulda had you there to stop me from shoving the kitchen sink up my nose," Niall says, voice solidifying with another sip of tea down him.

"Probably would've needed more than me," Bressie says. "You do that shit for a reason, you know." He sounds a little stern, now.

"I know," Niall says with a sigh. Bressie's always on about this. "Mindfulness, reflection, blah blah blah."

"If you're feeling fine, Nialler, you don't have to worry about it." He clears his throat. "Guessing you're not feeling fine, though."

"I feel like a miserable shite and you know it, fecker," Niall says. "Get so restless. Just wanna come clear out of me skin after a tour, you know?"

"'Course I know," says Bressie, after a loaded silence. "Coming down after a high like that just makes all your anxieties that much closer to the surface. Clawing at you from the inside, like."

Niall doesn't say anything, just goes back over to the couch, listening to Bressie breathe, curled up against the back cushion with his phone tucked to the side of his face. Suddenly he's wishing the house weren't empty, that there were someone else here with him. He could use a cuddle, embarrassingly. "You should come visit," he says, without thinking. He immediately wishes he could take it back.

Bressie laughs softly, hums. "You know what. You should come home, is what. Decompress in Ireland, chief. London's so bad for all that. Just makes everything worse."

"But I'm at home now," Niall says, feeling pathetic.

"Sure, you don't have to," Bressie says, sounding more brusque now. "Just makes sense, doesn't it? Quieter here, less trouble to get into." He clicks his teeth. "I could keep an eye on you, keep you out of what trouble there is," he adds, and it's a little awkward. Niall feels his cheeks heat even though he's all alone.

"I'm not a fuckin' baby," he says. Before Bressie can retort, though, he says, "Hey—how're you, though?"

The squeak of a chair on Bressie's end. "You know, same old. My place's a lot cleaner now." Roz was infamous for her messiness, although Bressie was only ever fondly exasperated about it when they were together. "Not eating quite so well, though."

"Bit too many snackboxes?" Niall asks, laughing genuinely. Suddenly he's ravenous and hasn't ever wanted anything more than he wants a Supermac's snackbox right this second.

"You could say that." Bressie falls quiet then. Niall does, too. They stay on the line not saying anything in surprisingly comfortable silence for long minutes. "I should get a move on," Bressie says, finally. "Have to be at the pool in a minute. Good luck getting over your miserable hangover."

"Right then," Niall says. "See you in a bit, maybe."

"See you in a bit," Bressie says, and Niall can hear his smile.

Gemma shows up not long after. She lets herself in since Niall's still curled in a sad little pile on the couch, the blanket from the back of the sofa pulled tight around himself like a swaddled baby. "Oi," she says, far too loudly even though she's barely raising her voice. She's carrying a box of what looks like files, which mean Niall probably has work to do of some sort. He doesn't want to do it.

"Can you book me a flight to Dublin?" he asks, in as miserable a tone as he can muster. "For tomorrow."

"You think you'll have rejoined the living by then?" she asks, dropping the box by the side of the couch. Niall winces when it hits the floor.

"Let's assume yes and I'll let you know if you need to book me a funeral procession instead," Niall says.

*

Niall gets to the Westin on College Green in a Mercedes with tinted windows. It pulls around back, into the garage entrance for deliveries. He hasn't been in the front entrance of a hotel in years, barring awards shows. No one's waiting for him here, but the hotel's in the heart of the city, and the more people who see him coming in, the worse it will be when he wants to leave. It's easier than on tour, of course, where even their unmarked van manoeuvres have stopped working. The NBC special gave it all away, and he can't say he misses being cooped up in the backs of those things, if he's honest.

The hotel is slick, and Niall has a penthouse suite. There's huge bouquets and plush robes laid out for him when he gets off the lift into the foyer of his suite, gift baskets of fruit, all of it. He's been coming to the Westin for years now, on a first-name basis with most of the very professional and discreet staff. Sometimes more than a first-name basis—although Connor's not working this season, off at uni in London instead. They keep in touch, Skype every once in a while; apparently he'll be back in the summer.

The first thing Niall does is unpack. He's brought his tour trunk with him, filled instead with his own clothes instead of Caroline's selections. He has an honest-to-God hatbox as well, neat stack of snapbacks in it, kept pristine. A garment bag with two suits, a black and a blue, just in case. A toiletries bag with his whole skincare regime instead of little travel versions, plus several different full-sized bottles of aftershave (Hugo Boss, Bvlgari, Lacoste) instead of having to play favourites. It's a long-haul stay this time, and while it's comforting in a way, even the penthouse of the Westin isn't swank enough to make up for the fact that Niall's stuck in a limbo that isn't home.

It's with that thought in his head that he phones up his driver to pick up a rental for him—Range Rover of course, white like he always favours when he's home—and drop it off in the valet parking. He peels his clothes off to shower the travel away while he waits for the call back about the car.

His body is ghostly-pale in the mirror over the sink, moles standing out starkly against his whiteness, dark circles faint but visible under his eyes, bags rivaling Louis's even in the flattering light of the marble bathroom. His hair's a mess, too long and dark at the roots. He's skinnier than he's been in a while, hasn't worked out or eaten anything but junk for ages. His skin is acting up. It's just a general disaster area, all told. He gets in the shower with a dejected sigh.

He's warmly bundled in his robe after his shower, happily munching on a steak salad and a chicken curry from room service, his fretting draining away as he watches the football and peruses Twitter, when the driver finally rings.

*

By the time he pulls up to his da's house in Mullingar, there's already a gaggle of girls outside. His stomach flips, nerves crackling as he puts the car in park and pulls out his phone, pretending to be busy so he can best decide how to proceed. He could go out and speak to them, which means they'd all be happy and some might go home after they've gotten a picture, but if he does that, there'll be three times as many tomorrow. He could get out and say he wishes he could speak to them but he just doesn't have the time, which would give them a chance to rush him or try and guilt him into going over, but which might mean he could run inside right after and not seem like too much of a dick. The last option is just run straight in, pretending he doesn't see them or hear them at all like when a chugger accosts someone on the street in London and they suddenly have selective hearing.

He goes, grudgingly, with the first choice. He puts on a smile and takes some selfies and signs some things, has a bored conversation with a few of the girls who seem very sweet considering they think it's appropriate to wait outside Bobby's house after dinner time to hassle Niall when he's been traveling for a whole day and would rather eat nails than put on his work face.

Bobby's at the door by the time he's done, arms outstretched and with a big smile. Niall jogs up the walk to him, gives him a big hug as the door shuts behind them.

"Never will understand how you put up with it," Niall says, shaking his head, but he's smiling. Bobby looks good, bright-eyed and happy, if a little more deeply lined in the face, a little greyer.

"They're nice girls though, aren't they," Bobby says, ever the optimist. It scares Niall, sometimes, how trusting he is. He's his own man, though, knows how to handle himself. "Sure, come through and say hi to Aoife. She's been making that lasagna you love."

His house feels smaller every time he comes back to it, the homey burgundy walls of the dining room, the mantelpiece in the living room. It's all lovely, but seems farther away. Aoife welcomes him into the kitchen with a squeal and a big hug and Niall kisses her cheek, swaying her from side to side in a silly makeshift dance. She's listening to RTE 2fm—Chris and Ciara, means Eoghan just finished—on the little radio perched on the window sill, and the moon is shining almost-full out over the treetops in the back garden. It's cozy and warm-yellow with his family around, and Niall should be glad to be home. He mostly is, but when the girls out front start singing and he sees Aoife's shoulders fall a bit as she stirs her butternut squash soup over the hob, his chest aches and he wants to be anywhere else.

Niall's had a few beers with Bobby and watched some rugby on the couch in the living room when he gets a text. It's Bressie, and he's just sent an emoji—the little house with the tree out back.

 _speakin of_ , niall texts. _kno any good estate agent?_

_meet me @ John Daly's tomorrow noonish & we'll chat_

*

"I just hate doin' that to them, y'know?" Niall says, sloshing a bit of his Carlsberg over the side of his pint glass. It's two in the afternoon at John Daly's Pub and Bressie's sat across from him at their little table next to the bar. The dark wood and grotty cream walls are as much home to Niall as his own kitchen. Bressie didn't hug him when he came in, just clapped him on the back as he made a beeline for the bar.

"They don't mind putting up with a bit of craziness to have you back in the house," Bressie says. He quirks an eyebrow. Niall can't tell if he's being distant or if Niall's just in a funk.

"I do though, don't I!" he says, incensed but with good humour.

"Well, so you want to get your own place, is what I'm hearing." Bressie takes a deep sip of his Jameson and ginger, and Niall's suddenly wishing he had one too.

"It's about time. Seems mental to keep living out of a hotel when that's what I do most of the year anyway. Just more stress. I'm supposed to be decompressing, you said, right?"

"Sure, don't just do it because I told you to!" He laughs, incredulous.

"I'm not, I'm not," Niall says, shaking his head. "You're right. It's a good idea—don't let that go to your head though. Big enough, I'd say."

"Shut your feckin' gob," Bressie grumbles, but he's beaming, brows up, goofy look on his face. Niall cracks up. "I know a great girl could help you find someplace, for sure. You're looking here? Or in Dublin?"

"Dublin," Niall says, sliding his finger through a ring of condensation on the table. Everything smells like cigarette smoke. "Everyone knows your business here. It'd get out in about three seconds, then what'd the point be?"

"Fair play," Bressie says, shrugging. "Closer to me in Dublin anyway, no argument here."

"I'm not going to the gym with you though," Niall says, playing it up, wagging a finger at him.

"Who wants you to?" Bressie says. "Holdin' me back. End up carrying you around on my shoulders like a human drag suit."

Niall puts out his hand, making a grabby fist for the estate agent's card. Bressie's rooting around in his jacket—a sharp grey blazer, Niall's a fan—and comes out with it, a little crumpled but legible. "In payment, I'll get the next round," Niall says, slipping it into his back pocket.

"It was your round anyway," Bressie says, unimpressed.

Niall laughs and shrugs, heading back over to the bar. Bressie's always been the most independent of their lot, the one who brought the London Irish Crew together then left them to flourish on their own while he went back home. Niall's been watching his journey over the past two years, idly at first and more purposefully these days. He didn't miss the story Bressie told whilst standing at a podium about the time he lived in the park for three days. It was back when he was living with Greg and Laura, anxiety-ridden and having a massive panic attack, scared to bridge the gap between the top of Primrose Hill and the rooftops he could see just beyond it, scared to go back to a world with people in it. Niall didn't miss hearing about the depressive crush of London affecting Bressie's mental health so much he couldn't get out of bed, couldn't face the world, couldn't function.

It twists Niall up inside, knowing the place he's come to love and think of as home is the very antithesis of Bressie's heart. What could London do to Niall, if it did that to Bressie? If it drove him into that isolation, peeled him away from his found family because it was unforgiving, smothering?

The bartender slides him their drinks—two Jameson and gingers this time—and Niall tries not to think about it. He's here now. He'll decompress. Everything will be just fine. It certainly can't get more complicated than it already is.

*

Niall buys a beautiful house in Ballsbridge not long after. He looks at some in Donnybrook first, and one waterfront property in Sandymount. There's an abandoned public swimming pool near it, just by Sandymount Strand. It's a graffiti wonderland, the atmosphere of the place almost indescribable, an ironic urban cathedral by the sea where the sounds of lapping waves and the clanks of beer cans are its version of a boy’s choir. Everything smells salty, mouldy, metallic. In some of the lower rooms of the bombed-out rec building the floors are carpeted in sand, two feet deep because of the flooding. Niall peers into the bathroom where crude tags of Optimus Prime are scrawled over the dilapidated urinals.

It takes a few weeks to sign the papers on the new house, and he spends most of it playing golf and sleeping on Sean and Darragh's couch, drinking beer, eating Taytos, and marathoning Father Ted like the worst stereotype. Part of him wants to ask Bressie if he has any free studio time, or if he'd be open to a writing session, but mostly he's scared. If Bressie wanted to do any of that, he'd have said so by now. There's an unspoken moratorium on Bressie participating in Niall's music career beyond a distant mentor role, and Niall's never looked into why, never even confirmed it. It just feels wrong to ask Bressie if he wants to do some writing together, for some reason. Maybe it's Bressie's shut-down vibe throwing Niall off, but whatever it is, he doesn't end up floating the idea.

They do go see movies together, though, and they tool around Mullingar and Niall meets the Breslin family dogs. Jack and Russell live with Bressie's parents now, along with a Bull Terrier and a sweet little Husky puppy, Dolly and Aslan. Niall's obsessed with them, but they hardly pay him any attention at all when Bressie's there, rolling over for him and following him around like he's the second coming. Niall laughs himself sick and makes a few too many bitch jokes for polite company.

"You're coming to my housewarming party, right?" Niall asks one day, socked feet up on a cushion on Mrs. Breslin's coffee table.

Bressie's nostrils flare, but he doesn't look up from the Men's Health he's reading in the armchair on the other side of the room. His tattoo shifts under his t-shirt when his bicep twitches. "Can't, Chief. Got a ton to do."

Niall pulls his feet down and scoots to the edge of the couch. "Please, c'mon! Please, Brez, it'll be so low-key, I swear. You won't have to socialise if you don't want to, you can just stay in the kitchen and prime the keg all night instead if you like." He's legitimately upset thinking about Bressie not coming, when it's his first place in Ireland, when Bressie's such a big part of making someplace feel like home. It wouldn't be properly warmed without him, not when he's helped Niall so much already, has been around and in Niall's life so much recently.

"I appreciate the invite, I really do. I just can't make it." He sounds stern, like he won't brook any argument, and Niall lets it lie. He finds an excuse to leave, though, trudging to the end of Bressie's street and through a field to Bobby's house even though it's fucking freezing and he's likely to have all his fingers fall off from frostbite on the way. He'll crank the heat once he gets back in his car and drives back to Dublin.

Niall's place is on Shrewsbury Road, and it's not lost on him that he's parking himself far above his station there. His neighbours are property developers and entrepreneurial millionaires, but if Harry can rub elbows with movie moguls in Hollywood, Niall can buy a five-bed tudor semi-detached in Ballbridge. It's a good investment.

He parks his rental out front, behind the electric gate. Part of the reason he picked this house was because of the intense security already built in; the last owner was a paranoid dot-com CEO. Dylan's in the kitchen when Niall goes inside, setting up for the party already. "Took you long enough," he says, looking up from where he's flipping through a cookbook. "Can't decide what you're gonna cook, can I?"

Niall laughs and punches Dylan on the arm, looking over his shoulder at the the shortlist he's made, trying to pick out what would work best for a gaggle of hungry Irishmen. One short of a gaggle, since Bressie's thrown him over. He tries not to mope.

*

Everyone's at the party by around nine, the kegs flowing and Niall's makeshift sideboard groaning. He supplemented his cooking with some tapas platters from Gourmet Food Parlour and there's more than enough for everyone. The new house looks good full of people—he hasn't decorated much yet, but it feels homey already, wood floors and bright lights and spacious rooms. Eoghan's DJing in the corner—something Bressie would usually be doing, but Eoghan can hold his own at least. Bobby's come down for the occasion, and as many Devines as are left in Ireland.

Nialls halfway through a rousing game of Quarters around the pool table in the rec room when the intercom buzzes with someone at the front gate. Niall excuses himself and scrambles to the workstation with security cameras—in his London house, it's in the kitchen, but here it has its own corner of the study. The figure at the gate is unmistakably enormous. It's Bressie.

"Big face!" Niall shouts into the mic—he's more than a little drunk already. He buzzes him in without waiting for a response, and legs it out the front door, between all the cars in his driveway to greet him in the flood of light from the moon, huge and high in the sky.

"Guess I just can't say no to you, Chief," Bressie says, and he's grinning, sincere but wan. When Niall catapults himself against Bressie's chest, he squeezes him in an all-too-brief hug. Bressie smells clammy and sick. "Can only stay a short while, though," he murmurs. Niall feels rotten for trying to guilt Bressie into coming, didn't realise he was feeling ill.

"Fuck, you're a legend," Niall says, beaming up at him, hugging his arm, which is the only thing he can reach. Bressie's jumper is soft and warm, cobalt blue. He's wearing black jeans, tight around his thighs when Niall looks down at how their feet are slotted together. They're so close. He's so drunk. "Thanks for coming, head."

"I'm only drinking water," Bressie says, mock-stern, and Niall laughs.

"Sure, you say that now."

Bressie really does only drink water. Niall has to mingle and play host, but whenever he sees Bressie he's clutching a pint glass of water, and he's tucked into a corner somewhere, either watching the party or speaking to someone, low tones and gentle face. It's a bit past eleven when Bressie finds him back at the pool table, cue gripped tight as he watches Shanon throttle him yet again. "You're not allowed to play anymore," Niall says with a laugh. "Have to give you a handicap or something."

"Just a piss-poor loser, aren't you?" Shanon laughs.

Bressie clears his throat and Niall turns around, arm going automatically around Bressie's waist. He's stiff and drawn. "Need to take off," Bressie says, voice rough. "Not feeling so great."

"Man-flu," Niall says with a scoff.

"Probably," says Bressie, prying Niall's hands off him and pulling away. "See you later, when I'm doing better, alright?"

"Hey," Niall says—it's suddenly very important that Bressie hears him. "Thank you again. For coming."

Bressie just nods, and his eyes look weird. He must be crumpling inside, anxious about being around everyone when he's sick. Maybe not even sick, maybe just overextended, doesn't have enough left in him to sit out the party for Niall. Niall understands better than anyone, to be fair.

The rest of the night is great, Niall has a wonderful time. No one breaks anything valuable and some of the lads even hang around after everyone else has cleared out to help clean up at four AM. Niall's a lucky bollix, and he knows it.

*

Niall spends most of the next day lounging around the house. He's a little antsy when it becomes clear that some of his party guests have crashed in his spare bedrooms—obviously he loves having his friends over, but not in the morning when he has a day to start and shit to get done. The last stragglers finally leave around noon.

He makes a pot of stew in the afternoon when he's done scrubbing the kitchen, thinking of Bressie tucked up tired and miserable in his king sized bed at home. He lives just a few streets down and it's the least Niall can do to bring him some comfort food like Maura makes. He texts as soon as it's simmering.

 _got somethin for ya can i bring it by? make u feel better i promise_ , plus several food emojis.

Bressie doesn't text back. Niall leaves it an hour before texting again, just a quick _you there?_ but again, nothing. By evening he still hasn't heard anything, so he gives Bressie a call, which goes straight to voicemail. His phone is off or dead.

By eleven, Niall's well and truly worried. Bressie could've passed out; he looked pretty wobbly last night. He could've choked on his own vom and suffocated. Niall bounces his knee under the kitchen counter where he's sat on a bar stool, can't think of anything but all the ways Bressie could be very much not alright. He's probably just asleep, that's the obvious thing. He's ill. Ill people are tired. Ill people sleep through whole days without replying to the persistent nagging of their mates.

 _But what if he's not_ , keeps running through Niall's head. He pours the stew in a tupper and bags it up—fuck the time. He's checking on Bressie.

He takes the car; luckily it's dark enough that no one can really see what he's up to, not that anyone in his neighbourhood cares. Calling Bressie a few more times on the way over is fruitless, unsurprisingly.

He knocks rapidly on Bressie's front door; no one answers. He knocks harder, jams the button for the doorbell over and over. Nothing. He calls Eoghan, but he hasn't seen or heard from Bressie since last night either. "Does he have a key under a flowerpot somewhere or something?" Niall asks, trying not to sound as frantic as he feels.

"Chill," Eoghan says, laughing. "I'm sure he's just passed out hungover next to the toilet." Niall hangs up without saying anything else.

Bressie's got a back garden, so Niall ducks around to the side of his house where the fence begins. He manages to scramble over it without too much trouble, glad Bressie moved after Roz left. Being in a terraced house would mean neighbours peering out their windows at Niall trying to jimmy open Bressie's back door.

Louis had once glutted himself on spy movies and wanted to order a lockpick off Ebay for the hell of it. Niall agreed to help him with research, and it resulted in him being uncommonly good at the old B&E.

It takes a while, but eventually the lock snicks open and Niall pushes into Bressie's house. It's close and the air smells a bit thick, not quite like illness but not fresh and clean, either. It's almost bestial. He flips on a light, the full moon glow filtering in through the windows not enough to see clearly by. He peers around, going for the bedroom first.

Bressie's hunched over on the end of the bed, just wearing a bathrobe. "Thank Christ," Niall says, limbs finally relaxing some, relief flooding him. Bressie looks awful, drawn and wan and so pale his veins are visible under his skin. He's twitching, too, thighs jumping under the robe. He starts when Niall speaks, gasping, eyes wide.

"The fuck are you doing here?" he grates out, voice low and feral. He leaps to his feet, hunched almost in half with his legs bent and spread, like a fighter in the ring. It feels mean, deeper than just pissed off. Like he's lashing out from fear, a trapped animal, teeth bared.

There's a tall window in Bressie's room, a triangle of moonlight pouring across the carpet and the bed, putting his soft features in sharp relief. Niall backs up a step, tries to find words but just stands there, grasping at nothing. His heart is beating so fast, rabbiting in his chest. He can't see anything but the animal curl of Bressie's fingers.

There's a little clock on Bressie's dresser, antique, given to him by his label after he sold a hundred thousand copies of his first album. Niall's seen it a million times before. It chimes midnight, bright and cheerful in the strange darkness of Bressie's room, and a dark shadow leaps at Niall, hot and solid. There's a confusing muddle, then a sharp, stinging pain in his shoulder that radiates through all his limbs, and that's the last thing he feels before he blacks out.

*

The next thing Niall's aware of is a warm weight at his back, the gentle rise-and-fall of breathing. Sunlight kisses a wooden floor, turns it honey-gold. He's on a bed. The duvet is plaid. It smells like Bold and dog, and, for some reason, blood, although he can't see any. Niall's wrapped in a blanket but he's not wearing any clothes. There's an arm draped protectively over his side, hand curled loose by Niall's belly. It's Bressie. He's in Bressie's room.

Niall sucks a quick breath in through his nose, the detergent in the duvet cover almost overpowering, and as soon as he does Bressie scoots away. Niall turns, slowly—Bressie must've already been awake. He looks miserable. Not sick, now, just devastated. Scared. He smells almost tangy with it. Niall can hear his breathing as if he were counting his breaths out loud. There's a breeze rustling the trees outside and it's almost as if there were no window between him and them. Niall blinks, confused, not even sure where to start asking questions.

"Are you okay?" he starts, sitting up, remembering the stew he left downstairs on the kitchen counter. He could swear he smells it, even up here.

Bressie's mouth is a thin line, spots of colour high on his cheeks, eyes shifting over Niall's whole body even though he's still wrapped in the fleecey blanket. "Are you?" Bressie asks.

Niall takes stock. He feels fine. Really quite good, actually. Even his knee doesn't hurt, though he seems to have been sleeping—passed out?—curled in a ball, which usually aches bone-deep in his leg once he uncurls. His skin feels sticky, and when he opens the blanket to peer down at himself, he's naked but for dried blood smeared around his shoulder and chest. He gasps and pats at it, but there's no wound, no pain. Just smears of oxidised blood. "Is this mine?" he murmurs, looking up and Bressie, pleading silently for answers. Everything is very strange.

"Yes," Bressie says, like the words are scraping his throat raw on the way out. "You're not hurt though."

"No, I got that part," Niall says. "Fuck. What the hell happened?"

Bressie rubs his face tiredly with one big hand. "I'm a werewolf. And you're a werewolf too, now."

Niall laughs. "No really, what happened? Did we get on the beers and I blacked out? Don't usually, but I guess there's—"

"I'm not kidding," Bressie says. He still looks raw and despondent. He's really not good enough of an actor to be able to fake it, and Niall can still smell the tangy grit of fear on him. That fact that he can _smell fear_ is helping the pill go down as well.

"What," Niall says, flatly. Bressie shrugs and shakes his head, and before Niall can get a breath, there's a wolf on the bed next to him where Bressie had been, sitting warily on top of the trackies and vest Bressie had been wearing.

The wolf is mammoth, far bigger and more muscled than any wolf Niall's ever seen on National Geographic. It has wild, thick fur, so dark brown it's almost black, like Bressie's hair. It's eyes are eery yellow, not Bressie's soft hazel at all, and it's unsettling how sentient they look set in the vicious face of a beast. Niall swallows nervously.

The wolf noses at Niall's hand, gentle, and licks him. Niall shivers. It jumps off the bed and it's Bressie who looks up over the side of the mattress, grabbing his trackies and pulling them on from where he's sitting on the floor. "Always lose me clothes when Jeffrey comes out," he says brusquely, and climbs back up on the bed once he's not naked. His chest ripples and he puts his vest back on as well. Niall clears his throat.

"Jeffrey?" Niall asks, barely above a whisper.

"That's what I call the wolf sometimes," Bressie says, rubbing at the back of his neck, self-conscious. "Just helps me deal with it, I guess."

"It's you though, right?" Niall asks. He should be disbelieving still, surely. He should be looking for the smoke and mirrors and costumes, all of his other mates in on the prank. But Bressie looks so sincere, so miserable.

"Yeah, it's me," he says, softly. "Got to the point now where I can keep my mind when I change. You have to practice, though. The wolf's always there, waiting in the wings to make you go wild if you're not paying attention to it."

"Being mindful?" Niall asks, and Bressie gives him the wavery beginnings of a smile.

"Right. Being mindful." He looks like he wants to reach out to Niall, to touch him. He just clasps his hands together, instead. "You can keep your wits about you but you have to change during the three days of a full moon. Midnight, every night, like clockwork."

"Last night was a full moon," Niall says, falling back on facts to put order to the ridiculous shit he's hearing.

"I had to come back here to change," Bressie says. "That's why I couldn't stay at your party."

"You were ill," Niall says, as if repeating what Bressie told him would make it any more true.

"I wasn't really," Bressie says. He looks sad. "I hate lying about it but what else was I supposed to say? And anyway, if I go too long without changing, I really do feel like twice-baked shite once the full moon comes around. I never do, if I can help it, so. It's not really lying to say I'm ill."

"You looked awful last night when I got here."

"Well, that was probably more 'cause I was moping around feeling sorry for meself than because of the changing," Bressie says with a self-deprecating huff of breath. He shrugs, wringing his hands together and leaning towards Niall a bit. Niall wants to slide closer, to huddle for warmth even though he's not actually cold. Something about Bressie is so compelling, and he smells incredible, now that he's not so tainted by that tang of fear.

"So," Niall starts. "I'm—also a werewolf?"

Bressie's eyes go downcast, shoulders slumping inwards. "Yeah."

"How'd that happen, exactly?"

"I, um. I bit you."

"Why'd you do that?" Niall asks, genuinely curious. He's not sure if he should be angry or not. Bressie's only ever wanted to protect him.

"I don't know," Bressie says, and it's barely more than a whisper. "You were just there, and the moon, and it was midnight." He looks up, eyes glassy, nostrils flaring. "I didn't mean to, Niall, you've gotta fuckin' believe me. This is the worst—" he breaks off to put his face in his hands, shoulders shaking. Niall reaches out, strokes his fingers down Bressie's spine, just for a second. Bressie twitches away like he's been burned. "The worst thing I could ever possibly do. I literally don't—Jesus, Niall. It's like waking up with blood on your hands, knowing you've murdered someone but not why."

"I'm not murdered though, am I?" Niall says with a cautious smile. He pats at his own chest, careful to avoid the dried blood. "Just have a bit of a shower and I'm on me way, right?"

Bressie shakes his head, takes a shuddering breath. "You can't go home, not tonight. It's the last night of the cycle. You'll turn at midnight." Niall bites at his thumbnail, processing. "Can't be by yourself, not yet. You won't have your mind. Even if you did, it's a lot to take the first time."

Niall nods, trying to absorb it all. He squeezes at his knee, feels the scar under his fingers but nothing else. "Fair play," he says. "I'll just have a shower and not be on my way then, shall I?"

Bressie looks wary, but he nods, jabbing his thumb at his ensuite. "All yours, chief."

Bressie's bathroom smells earthy, like dirt and bodies and soap and perfume. It's overwhelming at first, as is the constantly distracting sound of Bressie messing about in his room, opening and closing drawers, moving things, re-making the bed. It's a blessing when he finally leaves, though Niall can hear that he hasn't gone far, can smell him still even when the water's running and there's steam dampening everything down.

The shower feels amazing. He washes the dried blood off first, gives himself a perfunctory all-over wash. He cleans his dick with a light touch, even though the shower is usually his favourite place to jerk off. His skin is buzzing with new sensations and something in him is hair-triggered, turned on enough that he knows if he paid himself any real attention he'd get hard in no time. He reaches around to gives his arse a quick clean as well, but he stops with his index finger pressed to his taint. There's something smeared down there as well, and when his pulls his hand up to look, it's not blood. It's not water, either, smells like his body, a little sour and slippery. "Uhh—" he says loudly, not sure what to do. He reaches back down, cheeks burning hotly, pressing his fingers to his hole, definitely slick-wet, and not from soap.

He hears Bressie's heavy footfall, and he wishes desperately he'd stayed silent.

"What?" Bressie asks outside the door, one hand pressed to it. Niall can tell from the way he sounds through the wood. "Niall, are you okay?"

Niall stares at the ceiling, wishing he'd melt straight down the drain. "I'm—um. I'm leaking?" He manages, clearing his throat gruffly at the end.

There's a hollow thunk from the other side of the door—Bressie's forehead. "Shit."

"Is that bad?" Niall rinses off in a second and turns the water off, scrambling to get a towel around himself. He opens the door and Bressie falls through, barely managing to catch himself on the doorjamb.

"Fuck, that explains—a lot," he mumbles. "Put on some clothes," he says then, overloud. He coughs and tries again. "Put on some clothes and I'll explain. You're okay, though. As okay as you can be, anyway." He still looks gutted, but at least not immediately worried. Niall's glad his insides aren't liquefying and running out of him because of a bad reaction to the bite, which was his first dire thought.

Bressie escapes out to the kitchen, and Niall takes his time getting dressed, taking stock of each body part, each sensation and smell and sound just in case there are any more surprises. He pulls on his underwear from yesterday, not sure if he should be—doing something about the leaking. He's bright red, he can see his face in the mirror on the back of Bressie's door.

By the time he's ready to face him again, there's a steaming cup of tea on the kitchen table, and the stew Niall brought is heating in a pot on the hob. Niall sits at the table, sipping gingerly at the tea. Bressie's as far away as it's possible to be, leaning in the other corner of the kitchen, nostrils flaring, whole body screaming that he's on-edge, uncomfortable. Ready to run at the slightest provocation.

"Not gonna bite," Niall says with a rueful smile. "It's me should be afraid of that, right?" Bressie looks like Niall just slapped him—no more jokes about that, clearly a touchy subject. He does come over to the table, though, sitting across from Niall with his own cup of tea. He drinks a long slug of it. "So why am I—why is that. Uh. What's going on with me, exactly?" Niall says, trying to skirt around the details where at all possible.

"There are different kinds of wolves," Bressie says, looking shifty, like he'd rather be anywhere but having this conversation. "Alphas, betas, and omegas."

"With you so far."

"Each kind has a different sort of—biology. Reproductive biology. Omegas are pretty rare, but um. That's the kind you are, apparently." He rubs uncomfortably at the back of his neck.

"What kind are you?" Niall asks.

"Alpha," Bressie says.

Niall laughs. "Of course you are, sasquatch: a literal alpha male. Why am I not surprised?"

"You can't always tell," Bressie says with a shrug. "I mean, you can tell if you pay real close attention. But I mean alphas aren't always big dumb feckers like me. Omegas aren't always—"

"Tiny little cherubs like me?" Niall asks with another laugh.

Bressie nods, unamused. "Right. I think I knew, really. Before I bit you. Sometimes people just have a draw about them. I think something in Jeffrey knew you'd be an omega, wanted to make you pack. Protect you." He murmurs the last bit into his mug, but Niall can hear him loud and clear.

"You said the um—biology—is different," Niall says, not ready to address whatever all that pack business means, wants to sort out his runny bum first, as disgusting as it is.

Bressie's blushing as red as Niall, if not redder. "Um, right. Reproductive, I said. Well, when we're human, we can still hear like the wolf. Smell like the wolf. We're stronger and faster, there's all sorts of changes in your human body. This is just one more thing."

"One more thing—with my arse."

Bressie nods, sheepish. "Or dick, if you're an alpha. Betas don't really change, I don't think. But alphas—we've got um. Well you know how a dog, when it mates—"

"Can't say I do," says Niall, eyebrows practically in his hairline.

"Well, they get a knot, y'see," Bressie says, trying to be matter-of-fact, but it's hard for Niall to buy it when he's tomato-coloured. "The base of their dick swells up to like, tie 'em together. And things. And omegas are like, the other side of that. They get, uh. Wet, like. So they can get mated and not—tear anything."

Niall just stares at him, mouth dry, graphic images of anal sex taking up all available brain space.

"Once werewolves knot, that's mating," Bressie continues, looking down at his own hands. "It's a bond you can't break, not really. Some people have done it in extreme circumstances but it's not easy." He looks up. "There's a bond sort of like that with your pack. Your family. The wolf that turned you, you'll always have that, given they stick around long enough to make the first changes with you."

Niall's looking him right in the eyes when he says it, and like a demonstration, he can feel the connection between them. Not telepathy, nothing so clear-cut, just a bone-deep feeling like Bressie is his family, like he's home. It's honestly not that different than he felt yesterday, if he's honest. "Right," he says, inadequately, but what else is there to say?

They eat the stew—Niall's ravenously hungry, and Bressie says that's to be expected. Werewolves have intensely fast metabolisms. Niall groans. "I already can't eat enough, keep weight on," he says, shuffling despondently to Bressie's couch.

"At least you'll be warmer?" Bressie says, and Niall shrugs.

"Put on the match," Niall says, and Bressie flips it on. They're at opposite ends of the sofa, but what Niall really wants is to snug up next to Bressie, to have a bit of a cuddle. Bressie's sitting ramrod straight, though, staring at the telly like he's got blinders on, and Niall doesn't have to smell the uneasiness on him to know he should keep himself to himself.

In the afternoon, Niall's perusing Bressie's library. It smells like wood and leather and paper, a bit like dust and mould sunk deep in the carpet. It's nice, though. He pulls down an old, musty book with the moon on the cover, tucks it under his arm and goes to find Bressie on his computer. "Cliche, don't you think?" he asks, grinning and waving the book.

Bressie looks up, rolls his eyes. "Wanted to be prepared, didn't I?" he says. "I didn't have a wolf mentor sticking around to make sure I knew what was up like you do."

Niall wants to ask about how Bressie turned, about how he got through it if he didn't have someone there. If he didn't have a pack, the way he puts it. It doesn't feel right, though, Bressie still stiff and pushing him away, so Niall doesn't ask. "Can I use your computer?" he asks instead. He also doesn't ruffle Bressie's hair, doesn't kick gently at his ankle. Niall's hyper aware of everything he's feeling, the concept of the pack bond weighing on him.

"The iPad's on the coffee table," Bressie says. Niall snags it and folds up in the armchair in the living room, glad to be in a different part of the house. He's working on a spreadsheet of the lunar cycle complete with dates, times, phases, and even the names of the full moons. The book outlines things like tides, too, and Niall's not sure if that's anything he should be worrying about, so he puts that in the spreadsheet too: better safe than sorry.

Niall eats about half of the entire contents of Bressie's fridge throughout the day. He should feel bad about it, probably, but he doesn't. Bressie did bite him, after all, so it's his own fault. Night falls and Niall's watching the sky through the glass roof of Bressie's conservatory. Bressie comes in, padding softly in socked feet, but of course Niall can hear him just about anywhere, now. Can smell him. "Will it hurt?" he asks, the full moon fat and creamy over the tops of the trees, blotting out the stars with its light. It's not midnight yet, but it will be soon.

"A little," Bressie says, quiet, chest almost touching Niall's back. The closeness is nice. "You won't remember it though, not this time. It takes longer in the beginning, before you've had a chance to practice, to get control. It'll hurt during, but once you're a wolf you heal so fast—not much hurts at all." He sounds like he wants to say more, but he's quiet, just the sound of his breathing, his beating heart in the silence.

"And?" Niall asks, turning to look at him. Bressie crosses his arms in front of himself.

"You really just need to experience it, I think," he says. "Open yourself up to it for the first time. Don't be scared. I'll be here, make sure you're okay. Fighting it just makes it hurt more, makes it harder."

Niall nods, looks down at the shadowed dip between Bressie's pecs. He's a little sweaty there, and it smells incredible. Everything is so strange, now. "Guess we'll just see then, won't we?"

"Let's go to the utility room," Bressie says, putting on hand warmly on the back of Niall's neck. Niall never wants him to move it. "It's the best place to change, since we're going to want to get you outside. Not having your mind, you might rip up my couch." He grins. "Or piss on my carpet. Bad dog."

"Thrilled you managed to find your fucking sense of humour finally," Niall says, laughing.

Bressie shrugs. "Sorry, mate. Just can't find very much funny about this when I've basically ruined your life."

Niall doesn't know what to say to that, just follows Bressie obediently to the utility room.

Bressie's got a watch on, and he keep nervously glancing at it. "Stop that," Niall says, batting at his knee from where he's sat on the area rug in front of the back door. "Making me anxious." It's not just Bressie, though. He feels weird all over, pins and needles in his limbs and joints, his skin rippling and muscles twitching like he's about to have a seizure or something. He feels a little bit out of his body, as though he's just done a bump of K and is watching the world happen around him like he's in a movie.

"I just want to be ready," Bressie says, but he takes the watch off and slips it in his pocket. "Only a few minutes. How are you feeling?"

"Fucking weird," Niall says, looking up at him with wide eyes. He wishes Bressie would hug him or something, as ridiculous as that is. As if he heard him, Bressie gets down the floor too, pulling Niall to him with one big arm, tucking him warm under his armpit. He smells so good.

"You'll be okay," he says, voice calm finally. He strokes at Niall's side and Niall relaxes into it, nuzzles his nose against the side of Bressie's chest, just smelling him, listening to his body work. Time stops meaning much of anything. Part of Niall is aware that his mind is slipping farther and farther away, but the rest of him doesn't care. The rest of him—

He feels his bones grind and crack and his skin stretching, shrinking. Each hair follicle pushing out bristles of fur, fingers snapping and hands turning into paws. It's over almost before it starts, though, the agonizing bright pain subsumed by body smells, by sounds, by his pack next to him, watching him, teeth set gentle and watchful into the scruff of his neck.

Bressie pulls at the door handle with strong jaws and they tumble out into the back garden. Scents and sounds overwhelm Niall and he doesn't even know where to go first, running a frantic circle around Bressie, panting in the cold air, the light of the moon pouring over him, making him feel strong and crazy.

There is no human thought in his head, nothing but the sensory exploration of the night time, the warm presence of Bressie nipping at him, playing with him, keeping him in line when he tries to dig under the fence, having scented something else, an animal, food.

Niall rolls over, shows his belly, and Bressie licks at him, pins him, leads him on a chase around the garden before they roll together, exhausted, in the grass, tongues lolling out and tasting the winter dew before it turns to frost.

When Niall wakes up, he's curled into Bressie again, this time on the couch. The same blanket as last night is wrapped snug around him, and it smells like Bressie. He turns his face into Bressie's vest top without opening his eyes, smelling the cotton and the lingering wolf scent.

Bressie gets up, Niall shifting as he moves out from under him, leaving him in the warm spot on the couch and clapping his hands together casually. "Morning," he says, overly loud. Niall looks up at him, face scrunched and cranky. Bressie softens. "Sorry," he says, quieter. "Must be weird. I just thought—when I was a fresh-turned pup like you, it made me really anxious. The waking up alone after a change. Don't want that for you."

Niall sits up, pulls his blanket tighter around himself. "How did you get turned?" he asks, seizing the opportunity while he has it. He doesn't care anymore if Bressie doesn't want to tell him. They're pack now.

Bressie sighs, sits back down on the couch, back hunched. "It was random. Completely fucking random. I was just a kid, still. Back when I was having those panic attacks, didn't know where they came from or why. I used to run, in the middle of the night, just run and run 'til my lungs were burning and my legs couldn't carry me anymore and I was so tired the anxiety just drained right out of me." Niall waits, watching Bressie collect himself. "That's when a wolf got me. On my own, just a kid. Middle of nowhere. It was dark, I was exhausted. There was no hope for me." He scrubs his hands over his face, and Niall scoots closer, puts a hand firm on Bressie's leg. Bressie lets him, flexes into the touch. "It was the worst day of my life. Waking up alone, not knowing where I was, what had happened, nothing. And it was only the second day of the moon, so I turned the next night. That was almost worse." He shakes his head, and Niall's chest hurts with how much he wishes he hadn't asked, how much he doesn't want Bressie to have to relive that. "I've been hiding it ever since then. I didn't even know there were others for so, so long. Christ, Niall." He looks at him, eyes so sad. Niall's heart breaks. "It's not being the wolf that's the problem. It's constantly having to hide it, to make excuses for it. Feeling alone."

Niall squeezes at Bressie's leg, can't do anything but nod. "Well, you're not alone now, are you?" he says, and tries a smile.

It must not've been the right thing to say, though, because Bressie shuts down. He gets up again, shrugs like he didn't just pry his ribcage open and invite Niall inside. "Anyway. So that's why I've been looking after you when you've fallen asleep, why I figured I ought to be there when you wake up. My body's used to it, I don't really do that so much anymore—the passing out with exhaustion." Niall nods like Bressie's just talking about his workout routine. "Already took my shower this morning, so it's all yours if you like."

Now that he knows about the whole omega thing, Niall's shower is much longer and more focused on exploring his body. He feels along all of his muscles, his teeth, his skin—there's no trace that he was a wolf up until several hours ago, except for the thrumming just under the surface, the almost electric crackle of energy collecting in his joints, in his groin. He touches himself, hand tight around his dick, working his foreskin over the head and back, getting himself purposely hard. He doesn't even have to think about anything in particular, just sinks into the sensation of it, leaning against the wall of the shower, warm water sluicing over him.

His dick hasn't changed, that's for sure. It looks the same as always, pink and curved up towards his belly, a little small, maybe, but proportional. He's never really minded, never really had any complaints. He grabs at his balls next, tugging the way he likes, biting at his lip and not moaning, though he wants to. Finally he lets himself push his fingers up against his taint, rubbing a little, spreading his thighs, heels almost slipping on the floor of the shower. It's smeary-wet there, much more now than last time, and he pushes the pads of his fingers through it, back farther to his arse, circling it, dragging easy through the wet.

It's not that he's never fingered himself before, but now it feels—different. Far more intense before he ever gets inside, his hole ready for his prodding, hungrier. This time he can't help but make a sound in the back of his throat, a shaky whimper, the intense feeling of his fingers—two fingertips—pushing into himself making his thighs shiver and spread farther apart. He loses his footing in the shower again, almost going down. He yelps and rights himself, hanging onto the soapdish built into the shower wall. He'll need to continue the exploration somewhere he isn't bound to crack his head open if he gets too into it.

He finishes up quickly and towels off, goes to the guest room down the hall—his room now, Bressie says—wrapped in his robe, gingerly trying not to drip on the wood floors. He locks his door, draws his blinds, and spreads his robe out on the bed like a towel, shivering a little in the open air even though Bressie's house is warm.

He hops up on the bed, gets on his hands and knees with his arse in the air out of what must be omega instinct, although he feels like an idiot doing it. The terrycloth of the robe is nice against his hypersensitive skin, particularly when he slides his knees apart, rubbing his fingers around his arsehole again, getting them wet and slimy in his own slick. It's gross, or it should be gross, but it feels so fucking good he can't even care.

He slides two fingers back into himself, pressing his face into his pillow to muffle the surprised whine at how it makes his hips flex, makes him feel open and needy. He doesn't go for a third yet, just keeps working those two in and out, sliding deeper and deeper until the angle is too shallow to go farther.

He feels around, then, as well as he can, and everything else is—basically the same in there. He nudges up against the spot that made his back bow even before all this, and it's even better now, makes him half-sob into the pillow at how good it feels, how much he just wants to shift back into his hand and grind against it for hours. His slick is smeared down to his wrist, now, over the insides of his thighs, slipping in wet trails along the crack of his arse. He moans, turns over so he can spread his legs wider and fuck up into his own hand. He adds another finger, and even that's not really enough.

Up until this point it was all more of a biology experiment than anything, but once he thinks about what a cock would feel like in him, big and heavy and pushing into his wet open body like he was made to get fucked—it's not just an experiment anymore. His dick is so hard it hurts, bobbing awkwardly against his stomach as he fucks his hips onto his fingers. There's not much precome, he's only a bit damp at the tip, just a small spot of it rubbing into the hair on his belly—which makes sense, all of his moisture having relocated, and then some. He's curling his fingers relentlessly right into the spot inside himself that makes his legs twitch and shiver, and he's just about to slide his other hand from his peaked nipples down to his dick when an orgasm rips through him. It's a complete surprise, starting in his hips and pulling up his spine, into his balls. His arse clenches tight around his hand, almost sucks it in as his dick pulses, and it's so intense his eyes actually roll up into his head, muscles convulsing, and he barely has the wherewithal to muffle himself with his arm, the keening coming from him nothing he would've anticipated as his body burns hot, jerks through it, every sense overwhelmed.

After he's done shuddering through the aftershocks, he pulls his fingers out, slimy and coated from tip to wrist. He's panting, wrung out, pool of come splattered across his chest, dick limp and tired. He feels so empty, empty enough that he remembers what Bressie said about the tying, thinks of it with a sick, curious longing. He gets up off the bed on jelly legs and wraps himself back in his robe. He needs another shower now, for sure, sweaty and messy pretty much everywhere.

He opens the door and stops immediately. Bressie's at the other end of the hall, standing stock still in his study, head resting on his hand against the bookshelf like he just stopped in the middle of reaching for a book. He's strung so tight Niall's surprised he's not visibly vibrating. His nostrils are flaring, though, and he's hard. Definitely, extremely hard in his jogging bottoms. Niall swallows thickly.

Bressie's eyes snap open and Niall's gaze catches his. Niall's cheeks flame up and he claps a body-ripe hand over his mouth in what must be comic shock. He forgot that Bressie could hear him. Could _smell_ him. He wants to burn up on the spot, but the universe isn't that merciful. Bressie's eyes flash and he storms up to the door of his study, slamming it with a final-sounding bang, and Niall catches the snick of the deadbolt.

He's more embarrassed than he's probably ever been, his blush burning all the way down to his chest, but he's turned on again, too, the crackle of it in his pelvis insistent and distracting. He groans and shuffles off to the bathroom to shower and take care of it, confusion and arousal and shame all a messy tangle in his head.

Eventually he's calmed down enough to get dressed properly. He's wearing a pair of Bressie's boxers and some of his clothes, a pair of jogging bottoms and an undershirt. They smell like Bressie and it's incredibly comforting, pleasant, and Niall wonders if maybe he could keep them.

He pads into the kitchen, unsure what he'll find there. Bressie’s been banging around for a while, food smells beckoning Niall. It's better than he ever could have hoped: steak, rare and bloody, huge hunks of it, and Bressie looking cheerful and easy compared to earlier. Niall has the feeling they're never, ever going to talk about it.

"Hungry?" Bressie asks, waving a plate of steak under Niall's nose. Niall almost sobs with how good it smells.

" _Fuck_ I've never been so hungry in my whole life." He devours his in record time.

Niall busies himself cleaning Bressie's house afterwards, at least as best he can without knowing exactly where everything goes. He does the entire place before he gets to Bressie's room, which he saves for last because it smells so good in there, feels so good, comfortable and homey like a den. Niall curls up in his duvet for a probably-inappropriate amount of time, rolls around a bit, even, getting Bressie's scent all over himself. It's his pack, after all.

Bressie's body smells even better than his bed, but it's far harder for Niall to get near. Besides the fact that Bressie keeps evading him, keeping his distance and being brusque when they have to speak, Niall keeps having to duck off himself. Now that he knows how his body works, he can't stop masturbating. He's like an antisocial child who's just discovered his penis, except he actually knows what he's doing and it feels a thousand times better. He doesn't _want_ to spend all his time on his back with his fingers up his arse, but he's so turned on all the time he basically has to if he wants to be able to accomplish anything at all. Add that to the fact that his knee never hurts or gets tired and he's just generally stronger with far more stamina and it's a recipe for disaster.

Bressie comes to find him in the kitchen while he's scrubbing all the copper-bottomed pots with steel wool. "Niall," he says, gruff, "not that I don't appreciate the dead-of-winter cleaning, but I think maybe now the last change has happened, you maybe ought to go back home."

Niall looks up, stomach swooping unpleasantly. "Oh, I—right, 'course. Sorry, head, I didn't mean—"

"We'll still meet up so I can walk you through all the new strengths you have. You'll need to practice changing at will, and on keeping your mind. But you should just get back to normal, to your routine." He doesn't sound mad at all. Almost pleading, really.

"Sure, you don't have to beg, like," Niall says, pasting on a grin. "Good dog."

*

It's warm in Dublin, a buck moon on the rise. Several months have come and gone since his first change, Niall's skin prickling to herald each one, his bones thrumming and blood beating like the wolf's lying in wait.

He's in his trackies and vest this morning, standing in Bressie's garden. It smells green and earthy, just like the first time. There's the ever-present overlay of Bressie himself, the almost spicy scent that's become Niall's favourite. He's a little early for their run; is often a little early, if he's honest with himself. It's lonely in his house, the pull of Bressie always sitting comfortably under his skin. It's the pack mentality, a thrumming comfort that comes from being near him.

Running always used to be painful; Niall's knee was as likely to pop out of joint as not, his asthma pulled him up short wheezing before he could even get much of a head of steam. It's not anymore. Running with Bressie is easy, gives him a happy, comfortable thrill in his belly like it's what he's meant to be doing.

"That's the wolf," Bressie said once. "I wasn't built for running either, but nothing calms me down and sets me to rights like racing through those fields outside town. Been like that ever since I first turned."

Niall hears him before he sees him this morning, the padding of his feet into the entryway behind the door, the click and rub of the lock, the doorknob. Niall cocks his head to catch the tiny sounds, smiling when Bressie finally appears, jogging down the back steps. "Morning, chief," he says with an easy smile. He's also in a vest top, grinning and squinting into the sun, tattoo stark against the soft pale skin of his inner arm. Niall wants to run up to him, to punch him on the shoulder, circle him and wrestle him and laugh. He doesn't, though. Just stretches his quads and watches as Bressie rolls his shoulders. "Ready?"

No one's about yet, the streets quiet and sleepy. Niall nods and takes off with a grin, knowing Bressie will follow. They have a usual route out of town, eating up the miles to the fields like nothing with the endurance of the wolf in their muscles and lungs.

Niall's knees don't hurt. He still has the scar tissue bunching angrily over his kneecap, but the lingering pain is gone completely, the delicate tendons not delicate at all anymore. He breathes easy and free, winded from exertion only after far longer than would've ever been possible for him before, no trace of his asthma. It's when he starts feeling the overextension in his body that the wolf drifts closer to the surface. That's always been the point of the jogs. "It's the best way to bring it out of you when you're still trying to get the hang of it," Bressie had said. "Get the blood pumping, get your bones tired, and it slips out, just like that."

Niall's scent sharpens when he's about to change. Bressie's nostrils flare and his eyes get darker when Niall's hollowing himself out, ready for his bones and skin to slide and crack, his humours preparing to seep and ooze together inside him. Niall can smell it when Bressie's about to change as well, though so far he hasn't been able to keep himself human long enough after Bressie's a wolf to learn much more about it. He won't tell Bressie that—keeps it quiet, pretends he never changes without meaning to anymore unless there's a full moon with its hooks deep in his ligaments.

Bressie is furlongs ahead of him now but hangs back once he scents that Niall's about to change, eyes piercing when he looks over. Niall shifts roughly—smoother than he used to, but it's still an effort. It's mental more than anything else, feels like it stretches into eternity and won't ever end, each cell one of infinite points of discomfort in the darkness, but then it's over in an instant. Niall's loping along as a wolf, looking over to Bressie with sharper eyes, seeing everything as smells and movement and light and sounds. Bressie never looks so good as he does when Niall's a wolf. Everything about him is exciting, is something Niall wants to taste and smell and be wrapped in. It's easy to feel like himself in the middle of nowhere with Bressie, even when he's a wolf. He doesn't lose his mind, even though it tugs at him like a dog on a lead. He doesn't let go.

Bressie grins at him and shifts as well, racing ahead as soon as his front paws hit the ground. Niall tries to keep up at first but then slows down, concentrating. The point of training is to push himself, to try and master the change, and when Bressie changes it's because Niall should be able to change back to a human even when his pack is all wolf.

It's hard; he's straining his mind more than his body, trying to remember what it's like to be a person and slide back into that feeling. It seems unnatural, like staying a wolf is safer. Bressie circles around in the distance, racing back towards him, and Niall suddenly feels the pressure to have changed by the time Bressie reaches him, to prove that he can do it, to make Bressie think he's in control, a fast learner, worthy.

That's enough impetus to snap into gear, to rush like a river flowing backwards, shifting into his own body. He's sitting in the small pile of his shed clothes when Bressie leaps at him, ruffing happily and panting as he runs an excited circle around Niall. Niall can feel that he's proud, that he's pleased Niall's managed to hold onto himself and change back and forth as quickly as he did.

Niall's tired from it, though, sweaty and panting as Bressie butts his head against Niall's belly on the ground, jumping onto him, pulling him playfully into a wrestle, not caring a whit that Niall's naked and tender after the exertion.

Niall laughs and musters up the strength to roll around with Bressie a bit, fingers curling into his thick coat, soft and warm and smelling like grass and pack. It's just like playing with a mate, really—a mate from back home, who's known him his whole life. Niall swallows thickly and Bressie's able to pin him in his hesitation, paws heavy and huge against Niall's shoulders. His nakedness is overly apparent, and it makes Niall break out in goosebumps even though it's warm.

Bressie changes back then, a quick blink from Niall and then he's a man, a much faster, cleaner change than Niall's. He'll get there eventually.

Bressie's human hands are still huge and heavy on Niall's shoulders. Niall feels even smaller now, slighter, Bressie the man more intimidating than Bressie the wolf, somehow. Niall's belly shivers and he blinks dumbly, thinking, for some reason, of _The Lion King_. Harry made him watch it years ago, horrified that Niall hadn't ever seen it as a kid.

Niall clears his throat and Bressie pants above him. "Sorry," Bressie says, not grinning anymore. He pulls away suddenly, puts feet of distance between them, curls in on himself. He bends his head back and forth, cracking his neck, before looking back over to Niall with an encouraging smile. "That was incredible. Still got a long way to go of course. Can't have any progeny of mine laggin' behind on a change. But well done, Nialler. Shall we do another?"

Niall groans, sitting up once Bressie's off him, both of them starkly naked, Niall considerably dirtier from rolling around. He clutches his pants to himself, wishing desperately they could sort out a way to change with their clothes. "No more! No more, you bollix, I'm tired of it."

"Pack's only as strong as your weakest pup, though, isn't it?" Bressie says, pulling on his vest and leggings with casual ease. Niall stoically doesn't watch. "Lazybones."

"I'm your weak pup, now, am I?" Niall huffs, but he's laughing as he pulls on his pants. Bressie politely watches a bird up in a tree by the path rather than staring at him as he dresses, and Niall's absurdly grateful.

Bressie shrugs and smiles, sidling over to offer Niall a hand he doesn't really need, helping him up. "The weakest. Newborn." He rubs a hand roughly through Niall's hair, and Niall scowls at him as long as he can before he ends up laughing again, bumping Bressie with his shoulder, the closeness wrapping around him like his old beloved electric blanket. Bressie squeezes idly at the back of Niall's neck with a big hand, and Niall's whole body relaxes, opens up, and he thinks maybe this hasn't all been a disaster. Maybe it's been the best thing to ever happen to him.

It's not always just jogs—when they get back, sweaty and relaxed, Bressie makes his way to his home gym, small and mostly consisting of free weights. There are huge stacks of discs in each corner, and with the increased strength of the wolf coursing through them, Niall and Bressie use far more on a bar than they should really be able to heft.

The back wall of Bressie's gym is entirely mirrors. Niall's supposed to use the mirrors to check his own stance, but he doesn't. Instead, he always gets distracted when he's meant to be counting reps because he's just watching Bressie in those mirrors. Niall really does look like a newborn pup next to him, slight and insubstantial compared to Bressie's solid animal presence. The wolf exudes from him even when the moon is a month away, curled growling and watchful inside his chest.

Bressie already looks like he could lift a house, thick but proportional, muscles smooth and lean shifting under his skin when he shimmies to get a better grip on the bar. Niall spots him, which would seem ridiculous if anyone could see them, what with Niall barely more than some whipcord muscles on a delicate twig frame. His appearance belies his strength now, though. Bressie's working with him to find his limits, to see what they need to do to maximise the latent power he's got going for him. It's what Bressie's always done: training and coaching and mentoring. It's how he's always been with Niall in particular, but more focused now, more intense. Niall tries not to let it make him anxious when Bressie's spotting him, when he's helping Niall with his form as he's doing a lunge, huge hand spanning the entire small of Niall's back, pushing him straighter, moulding him. It makes his chest tight and everything smells a little more sour, a little warmer and spicier. He loves that smell.

After they're done with their workouts, though, Bressie always springs away again. He used to at least drop a heavy arm around Niall's shoulders every once in a while. He used to pull him into a hug against his broad chest and mess up Niall's hair. He doesn't do those things anymore, not unless they've just been out running, practicing, lifting. So it makes sense, really, that Niall would show up early. Stay late. Drag it out as long as he can.

More often than not, Bressie sends him away with a book or two from his library as well. Bressie never had anyone to teach him, so he compensated by amassing as much information as he could for himself. Niall's never been too keen a reader, but the stuff Bressie gives him is fascinating, most of it illegally published, documenting werewolf history, science, superstitions. It passes the time easily.

Niall's first call from the label since break started comes after what feels like no time at all. He's in his study with the footie on, and he's practicing Voodoo Child on his newest guitar with a book of werewolf lore open on the desk behind him when the phone rings, Simon's smiling face popping up on the screen. It isn't actually Simon calling, of course—it's Melinda, the wrangler tasked with gathering them all up and getting them their info when they're scattered to the winds.

It's a weird jolt, thinking about work again. The band has been little more than a passing thought for Niall for the past months, his life before the wolf paling in the bright flood of the full moons, tucked into the shadows of trees, second to the feeling of pack and his constant need to please Bressie, to learn more, to be faster and better. His post-tour anxiety is nothing but an unpleasant memory.

It feels good.

*

He's been in touch with Willie whilst he's been gone, of course, but seeing him again is a laugh, and it dawns on Niall how much he's missed him. Gemma's been keeping his London affairs in order, and she's the one to pick him up when he lands at Luton, smiling and sweet. It's like he never left.

Learning everyone's smells, their little nervous tics that he picks up on now whether he wants to or not is endlessly fascinating. Willie keeps catching him with his head cocked to the side, trying to pick up on where some little sound or other is coming from—he's started making dog jokes, and he doesn't even know the half of it. Niall relearns the smell of his house, of his yard. He goes down the pub and slots back into the neighbourhood easily, setting up plausible reasons and excuses to be gone around the full moon like Bressie said to. Since he's always been away for stretches of time, there and back again even for just a day or two, it's not difficult.

The lads are in LA, all except Zayn who's lord knows where, per usual. Julian and Jamie are out there too, but John Ryan is in London to work with Charlie XCX, so it makes perfect sense for Niall to stick around and meet with him here instead of winging it all the way to the US.

The first day he meets back up with John, they're at the studio in Shepherd's Bush. It's familiar to Niall; they've been recording there for years, and he wrote there with McFly more than once. The worn green carpet is the same as always, although now he can smell what everyone had for lunch, and when Gina the receptionist takes her smoke break outside, Niall can hear her talking to her best friend about how she was dumped last week.

He can tell John's a werewolf even before he walks into the control room, but when he does, it freezes Niall in his tracks. "Hi," Niall manages, but his whole body is on high alert, nostrils flared, hands white-knuckled on the arms of his chair.

John is frozen, too, staring at Niall with his eyebrows near in his hairline. "Hi," he says, half-strangled. "This is—new."

Niall swallows dryly, takes a gulp of his water. "Yeah, I—um. Over break. Some things—happened."

"I'll say." John flumps down on the couch at the back wall, still staring hard at Niall. "An omega. Huh."

Niall shrugs, scenting the air. The heavy cast to it is unmistakable. "An alpha. Huh." He mocks John's awed tone. Then, after a moment, something occurs to him. "Is anyone else?"

John laughs. "David, actually. Beta I think, although we've never talked about it really. Haven't really gotten that close to him." Niall has. He mulls it over, trying to remember the statistics from the books Bressie's given him, wondering if it's strange to have several werewolves working on one project. If Bressie were here, he'd ask him. John fidgets a bit in his seat, his nostrils flare. Niall laughs, picturing Bressie. "Let's get to work, shall we?" says John, and Niall can't argue with that.

He's always been flirty with John, silly and camp in a fun way. Now, though, there's an edge of something else to it, the intimacy that comes from songwriting tinged with something more primal that comes from being wolves, an alpha and an omega. In the past, they'd record in hotel rooms with Niall as naked as he dared to be, but now he wouldn't strip down even if they were back to using mattresses as soundproofing.

He feels the weight of John's gaze on him when he sings, watching his fingers as he plays guitar. It makes him better, if anything. There's just something in him that needs to impress an alpha.

*

Niall sees David again a few weeks into his writing work, and it goes much the same as when he first saw John again. "Fuck, who'd've thought?" David says, grinning. "Little Niall, turned in Ireland." He ruffles Niall's hair, rubs at the tense muscles in the back of his neck. It feels good, and Niall's not strung so tight around David. John's right, he is a beta. "Want to come out for a pint, little wolf?" David asks. "Get you on the beers, see what it's like being a drunken dog." Niall laughs, lights up. He can't think of anything he'd like more.

When they meet up later, David looks gorgeous in a taupe cashmere jumper, black wool trousers, shiny black YSL boots. "Fuck, not really dressed for going on the beers, are you?" Niall asks, feeling self-conscious in his trainers, skinnies, and Topman jumper.

"Just felt like spiffing up a bit," David says, eyes twinkling, and Niall feels well and truly flirted with.

He calls Bressie when he gets back to his place that night—David paid for his cab like a gentleman, and didn't even smarm his way into an invitation back. There were more shots than was a strictly responsible amount, but Niall's thinking maybe writing with a hangover will be good inspiration for songs filled with pain and misery.

"How's my alpha?" Niall laughs down the line when Bressie picks up. He didn't really think he would; it's late.

"I don't know," Bressie says, wary. "But I'm fine."

"Fuck off, you count. You're my pack."

Bressie just hums noncommittally. "Anyway," he says. "To what do I owe the dubious pleasure?"

"Nothing," Niall says, clamming up a bit. "If you didn't want to talk, you shouldn't have answered the phone. I'll hang up, shall I?"

"No! No," Bressie says, urgent at first, then sheepish. "Sorry, didn't mean to be snotty. What's up?"

"Just had a good night, that's all," Niall says, drawing out the last word, letting it rumble in his chest. He sings _I Gotta Feeling_ for a few lines before Bressie stops him with an insistent throat-clearing. "Soz." He tries to remember why he actually called. "Oh, so—guess what I found out the other day. _Two_ of the team are werewolves. It's fucking crazy." Bressie makes a surprised noise. "John Ryan's an alpha, he's here from LA. You know, _Fireball_ guy. And David—you know him, too. Souts? He's a beta. Gay apparently, too. Or good as. Took me out tonight and all."

"What?" Bressie asks, sounding horrified.

"What what? I went out with him. What's wrong with that? Is werewolfness an STI or something? Even so, already got it, doesn't he?"

Bressie's voice raises, and he doesn't seem amused. "Niall, fuck—you have to be careful. Don't run around with those pricks, they'll rip you apart."

"Leave it out!" Niall snaps, sitting up so fast he knocks two cushions off the couch. "Jesus, I don't care if you think they're pricks. How would you even know? They're nice to me. Christ. At least they want to be around me, can pal around like _normal people_." He cuts himself off before he devolves farther into all the reasons being around Bressie pisses him the fuck off: his distance, his coldness. He's supposed to be Niall's family and these coworkers of his are ten thousand times warmer.

"Listen, Niall. I understand, okay. I'm sorry I was a twat just then, but it's 'cause I'm worried, alright?" He does sound calmer, now. Deliberate. Something shivering in his voice. "Look, you're so young. As a person, obviously, but even more so as a wolf. New-turned wolf, young, unmated, plus you're an _omega_. I can't even explain to you what that combination smells like, feels like to someone like John and even Souts, okay? It's great that they're nice guys, and you can date whoever you want. I can't fuckin' stop you. But—listen to me—" his voice drops low and urgent, "if you let someone knot you, you're mated. That's it. Your body chemistry is attuned to 'em, your emotions go crazy. I've read all the books. You can have sex where you don't knot, you'll be fine. But it's hard to control it once you're in it, Niall. Gotta keep your mind just like during a change, alright? Are you listening?"

Niall is listening. He's also hard, thighs spreading on the couch just thinking about getting knotted by an alpha, a real one who touches him and teases him and squeezes him at the nape of his neck. He rolls over onto his back, tries not to let his heavy breathing be heard down the phone line. "Yes," he says, and his voice croaks.

"Promise you'll be careful," Bressie says. He's quiet, barely audible.

"I promise," Niall says. Bressie hangs up.

*

As the full moon gets closer, Niall has Gemma call around to the contractors who built the security into the house when Marvin was living in it. He needs higher fences, a stronger front gate and doors. He tells her he's had some weird messages online—weirder than usual—and that he's just taking the usual precautions. He doesn't say it's to keep him in, not to keep others out.

The workmen are in one day when Niall needs to make an appearance at the label, signing some sort of waiver or something before they start planning the next tour. He hates the lift, but the Sony offices are on the 14th floor, so he gets in—blissfully alone—and takes deep, even breaths as it climbs up the side of the building.

He makes it calmly up seven floors before he hears the gears grind to a halt, and his heart starts rabbiting in his chest. His ribs contract, crushing the air out of his lungs. He shoves back into a corner of the lift with a whimper, slams his eyes shuts and imagines a field, open and airy and beautiful. He hums _Hotel California_ to himself, tries to focus on each breath, in and out. There's clanging above him, though, and the emergency light is a flickering fluorescent bulb that makes him feel sick. He bashes the Emergency Call button, and it's all he can manage. His head aches, his mouth is dry, and he can't get a full breath.

He's going to die.

He's going have a heart attack, right here in this lift, they're going to find his dead body with his lungs exploded in his chest and—

Niall turns before he even realises it's happening. He sits curled in the corner of the lift as a wolf, now, growling low and constant at the strange noises and vibrations in the floor of the lift car. He thinks of home, of running through the woods in Ireland, of his hot tub. He thinks of the band, and Bobby, and of Bressie. Everything he uses to keep his mind, to keep his cool, he gathers around himself now in the lift.

The wolf doesn't have panic attacks. He curls up on the pile of clothes and lies there, relaxed but alert, waiting for the sounds of rescue. Finally he hears voices, and with a concerted push, he turns back.

Except he doesn't. He can't turn back, nothing happens when he tries, and the frantic panic that smothers him as a human threatens him even as a wolf. He has to let go of his mind a bit, just a bit, just enough that he can lose the panic, lose the sick anxiety beating from inside him. But not so much that he loses grip, that he goes feral.

The voices get nearer, and he's never been more scared in his life. If they find him—he can't even contemplate what will happen when they find him.

He barely manages to turn human before the rescue crew pries the door open. He's still struggling back into his shirt, but he brushes it off with "panic attack, couldn't breathe with the crew neck collar—" and everyone mercifully lets it slide.

The papers still need to be signed, so Niall rushes through it as quickly as possible, desperate to get back home, to feel safe, to call Bressie.

"Shit, Bressie, god I'm glad you picked up, I almost died, I swear, I—"

"Woah, woah, pup, slow down. Take a deep breath."

Niall does, and Bressie takes one with him, even and slow. Then another. "I had to go into the label today. Was in the lift when the power went off. Or it broke down. Something."

"Fuck."

"Yeah. Had a full-scale panic attack."

"But you're fine now," Bressie says. "Home safe right?"

"Yeah," murmurs Niall. "But I turned. In the lift."

"What?" Bressie says, like it was supposed to be shout but he didn't have the voice for it, forced out in a whisper instead.

"I guess it's just what my body did, when I was having the panic attack. Thought I was gonna die—wolfed out." Fat, pathetic tears start welling up in the corners of his eyes. "Christ, Brez, I couldn't change back. I was stuck, started panicking even as a wolf. I had to—"

"Breathe," Bressie says again, voice shaky, but he takes a deep breath along with Niall, then another, until he's a little calmer, can keep talking without crying like a fuckin' berk.

"I had to let go. Of my mind. Just a little, just enough so I could stop freezing up and turn. But not enough that I'd freak out and go wild." Bressie sucks in a breath. "I was still trying to get my clothes back on when they came to get me out. Thought I was fucking done for."

Bressie's silent for a long, agonizing moment. Niall matches his breathing anyway, tries to keep himself together. "It's my damn fault," he eventually says. "It's all my fucking fault. Shouldn't have ever let you back over there by yourself. New-turned wolf without a pack, what was I fuckin' thinking? First rate bollocks. You're not ready. Christ, I should've come with you. I'll see how soon I can get there. Need to keep working with you, at least be there to help next time." He's upset, protective, and Niall should probably feel bad that he's thrown Bressie into this, but part of him just feels good. Looked after.

"You don't need to come here," he says, calmer. "John and David are here, I can ask them to help me out."

Bressie's silence sounds loaded. "It's not the same, though. I'm responsible. I'm your pack." He quiets, barely breathes, "At least for now."

Niall is stricken by that, doesn't know what to say. Can't imagine feeling about John or David the way he does with Bressie, seeing home in them every day.

*

Bressie comes over from Ireland. Probably nothing Niall could’ve done to stop him. "I have a ton of work I could be doing in London anyway," he says as soon as he's got his affairs in order, and Niall has Gemma pick him up at the airport. She brings him straight to Niall's house, no questions asked.

Willie is blissfully absent these days, down in Australia with his brothers catching up and surfing and probably smoking more weed than is generally acceptable. Niall puts Bressie in the room at the far end of the hall from the master suite, hopes it will be far enough that he won't hear and smell every little thing.

It's nice living with Bressie, better now than it was at the very beginning. Partially because Niall's more used to it, but Bressie's different, too. Not quite so standoffish, although still far too stoic for Niall. It's ridiculous, insulting almost.

He has a day in the studio with John the day after Bressie gets there, and John can immediately tell. "Ah, so that's who it was," he says as soon as Niall walks into the control room where they've been doing their writing.

"Who what?" Niall says with a laugh.

"You smell like him," John says, giving him a knowing look. "The alpha who turned you. Coincidentally, you couldn't come in yesterday 'cause your mate Bressie's just shown up." He slides his glasses down his nose and raises an eyebrow. "I can put two and two together, you know."

Niall pulls at a loose thread in the hem of his t-shirt. "You make it sound dirty," he says, laughing nervously.

"Isn't it?" John asks, leaning casually against the wall. "He's an alpha, you're an omega. That's the way of things, you know."

"No, we're just mates," Niall says, then catches himself. "Friend-mates, not—"

"Mate-mates," says John. "Well in that case, what are you doing later, little wolf?"

*

They end up at John's extended stay hotel room after their writing session, Niall with a whisky in his hand and John with a glint in his eye. That this is a hookup is unmistakable, and Niall's anxious but excited. He knows what he won't do, and he's hoping John will help him sort out what he will do.

"I could turn," John says, voice low, "if you're into that."

Niall laughs nervously. "No thanks, I think—um. I like your person face too much, I think."

"Aren't you a sweet one," John says. "Sweet little new-pup. An omega."

Niall shrugs, but he can feel his flush down the sides of his neck. "C'mere," he says, and John sits next to him on the couch, pushes him back against the armrest to kiss him deep, one hand tight on the back of his neck. Niall feels open, hunches his shoulders and shows his belly, inviting John in.

They make out on the couch for what seems like hours, John rutting hot against Niall's leg. "You ever felt a knot before?" he asks, and Niall shakes his head, sucks in a breath as John guides his hand inside his briefs so he can feel it, heavy and hard and unbelievably big. "Don't worry," he says, almost smug. "I won't put it in you." He kisses Niall again. "Not yet anyway."

Niall shivers at the sound of John's voice, the alpha weight of it. "Better not." That's the hard line, right there.

John pushes Niall's shirt up, kissing down his belly and inhaling deeply through his nose. "Fuck, you smell good. Get your clothes off, little wolf, c'mon now."

Niall scrambles up, eager to obey, to be told what to do so he knows he's doing it right. John watches him, sly smile on his lips, and it's just like it is in the studio but more, dirtier. Niall loves it even though his skin crawls, too. _Don't look at me like that. Actually, do._ He suppresses a nervous laugh.

He's stripped down to just his underwear, cock hard and pushing out at the slit of them. John just sits there, drinking him in, scenting him. "Turn around," he murmurs, and Niall does. He's dripping-wet, can feel it between his arsecheeks already even though they've just been making out, having a grope. Feeling John's knot—he's surprised he hasn't soaked through his briefs, considering how turned on that made him. "Push 'em down," John says, and Niall slides his thumbs under his waistband, pushing it down below the curve of his arse, fitting it along the crease at the tops of his thighs. John sucks in a sharp breath through his nose. "Christ, look at that. What a gorgeous little arse you have, Nialler."

"Not like you haven't seen it before," Niall manages, bravely. He puts on a smirk, hopes it holds steady. "And half the world."

"Not like this I haven't," John says, and puts a big hand in the stretch of Niall's briefs between his thighs, pulling him back until his calves hit the couch. He almost falls, but manages to keep his balance with John's hand spread wide over the small of his back. John's lips replace it after a moment, and he kisses, nips at Niall's skin, following his spine with little licks. "Never smelled someone so good," he says against Niall's arse, and it should be funny, but Niall's not laughing. He's shuddering instead, trying desperately to keep from pushing back into John's face. "Gonna taste you," John says, and Niall buries his face in his hands, bites on his wrist to keep from moaning like he's desperate.

John trails just the tip of his tongue down the crack of Niall's arse, slow and teasing. He spreads him apart with warm hands, thumbs pressing in just far enough away from his hole that he can't push back onto them, can't get John inside him. He licks around Niall's arse, rubs his stubble against Niall, nips at him until he's shivering and gasping. "Please," Niall says, can't keep quiet anymore.

"Please what?" John says, and Niall doesn't know what he wants, doesn't know what John's asking to hear.

"Please, alpha," he tries, desperate. "Please, want your—want your tongue."

"Oh, good boy," John says, and licks into Niall, finally, tongue thick and hot and slick inside him. Niall moans at the feel of it, weird and embarrassing and so good. John laps at him, making obscene slurping noises.

Niall feels flayed, raw, and when John snubs two fingers up against him he's more than ready for them. He bears down, whimpers in the back of his throat as John crooks them, strokes at that spot until Niall's knees buckle and he can't stay standing anymore.

"C'mon," John says, and pulls him down onto the sofa, all fours this time, arse up so John can lick messily around where his fingers disappear inside Niall, slick seeping everywhere. Niall hides his face in the cushions, cheeks hot and mouth slack with how badly he needs to come. He clenches around John’s fingers, slips one hand down to work at his own cock until he can get himself there. "Oh no you don't," John says with a throaty laugh.

"What?" Niall says, dazed, looking back under his own body at John, only able to see his elbow and thighs and the big, obvious bulge of his cock.

John pulls Niall's hand away from his dick, then reaches over to the end table. "No touching. Let's see if you can come on this, no hands." He shows Niall a slim vibrator, small and unassuming. "I bet you can. No substitute for a real alpha's knot, though." He turns it on, presses it insistently to Niall's taint until he's keening, thighs spread so wide he's about to fall off the sofa.

"Yes, yes," he mumbles, almost crazed with it, the vibrations tickling and tormenting him, palpable all down his dick and balls and in the needy ache of his arse.

John slips it in him too easily, and Niall wishes it were twice as thick, longer, hot like skin. It feels amazing anyway, and the buzz of it pressed exactly where he needs it makes him shiver, muscles in his thighs and belly clenching uncontrollably. "Fuck, fuck," he whispers. "John, I'm gonna—"

"C'mon, omega," John says, and smacks his arse once, right in the meat of his left cheek, the thick sound as startling as the perfect bright sting of it. Niall keens and comes, whole body hot and thrumming with it, arse tight around the vibrator, coating it in slick. His dick twitches as he spurts onto the couch, up his own belly.

John is fucking him through it, one hand tight on his thigh, the other keeping up a slow, deep rhythm with the vibe until finally Niall's choking out, "Stop, stop," and trying to pull away, oversensitive and wet-eyed with orgasm.

John does stop, groaning and gripping at his dick, squeezing. Niall pants heavily against the couch, shaky all over. One of John's hands is on his back, probably for comfort but it's clammy and suffocating, so Niall turns over, pulls his knees up so he's lying on his back, no part of him touching John. "Christ," he croaks, everything limp and fucked-out, and John laughs.

"Okay?" John asks, a hand in his pants, eyes glassy.

"Yeah," Niall says, heaving a breath, trying to get his bearings. "Are you—what can I do?"

John bites his lip, shaking his head ruefully. "Nothing. You're new to this, I hardly expect you to swallow alpha jizz your first time out the gate."

"I could wank you?" Niall says, licking at his dry lips. He wants to see an alpha cock so badly, wants to feel the heft of it and watch the knot form.

John grins. "Eager, huh?" Niall just shrugs, but yeah. He is. Even orgasm-loose and streaked in his own spunk and slick. "C'mere."

Niall scrambles gracelessly over to John and watches with fascination as he gets his dick out, the base swelling up into a knot, big and strange-looking and so hot it's as if Niall didn't just come all over the sofa. "Put your hands around the knot, like this," John says, demonstrating by locking his fingers together and overlapping his thumbs.

His knot is hot under Niall's fingers, pulsing with his heartbeat. Niall holds his hands like John showed him, tight, and John works himself over, one hand on the rest of his dick while Niall watches. As the knot swells it moves higher, and John bites back his groans. "Woah," Niall says, possibly rudely but his social niceties left him back when his clothes did.

"That's how it ties you," John says, panting. "Imagine that pushing into your little omega hole, Niall."

"How does that even fit?" Niall asks. John makes a bitten off growl and then pulls away, a hand out to keep Niall from touching his cock.

"I don't wanna come," he says, breathless. "Your come we can get off the couch. Mine?" he shakes his head, trying to compose himself. "I'll finish in the shower later."

"You could finish in the shower now," Niall says with a hopeful raise of his eyebrows.

John laughs, sounding pained. "Alright then."

*

Niall gets home from John's hotel in the wee small hours of the morning, a cab dropping him off outside his gated driveway. He doesn't bother going in the front door, instead hopping the hedge around the patio outside his bedroom, hoping to avoid waking Bressie up.

The lights are on, though, and while part of Niall half expected Bressie to be waiting in his room, he isn't. Niall pokes his head out into the hallway—Bressie's end is dark, still, but there's a murmur that sounds like the telly coming from the living room, and that's where the lights are on.

He brushes his teeth and showers, perfunctory, just trying to get the smell of John off him. Not that it's bad, or that he's ashamed, but it just doesn't feel right somehow, the smell of another alpha here in his home where Bressie is. It seems rude.

Bressie's standing in the hall outside his room when he comes out of the en suite. Niall can smell him there. "What?" he asks, short, not opening the door. He towels at his hair instead, sex-loose muscles tightening up again.

"Where have you been?" Bressie asks, and it's calm, measured. He's not yelling or barging in. Niall takes a deep breath and opens the door.

"Nowhere," Niall says, one hand firmly on the tuck of his damp towel around his waist. He shivers, cold, but raises his chin anyway, looks Bressie in the eyes.

"Don't lie, pup," Bressie says, and Niall ducks his head. He still hasn't raised his voice but it's deep and still, now, and that's even worse. Niall's belly flips and he clenches his hand tighter, digs his fingers into terrycloth. "I can smell him." Bressie's brow is furrowed and his lips are soft, but he's got his shoulders back and all his muscles are keyed up; he's almost trembling with it.

Niall shrugs, trying to seem flippant. "I was with John. I was safe."

"You weren't fucking _safe_ ," Bressie says, and his composure slips. It comes out half a growl. He reins himself back in immediately, rubs a hand anxiously at the back of his neck. He tucks his hands under his biceps, arms crossed.

"It's not like I let him knot me," Niall says, and he knows shouting like this makes him sound like a petulant kid, but he can't help it, hackles raised. "I can take care of my damn self!"

"I know you can," Bressie says, taking a deep breath, fists clenching under his arms. "But you can't ever be completely safe, not when you're with an alpha like that. Sometimes wolves lose control. You know that better than anyone." The worry is evident in his voice, but Niall chafes under it, the hurt welling up unpleasantly in his throat, anger wrapped around his lungs—he can't believe Bressie would throw his near-miss in his face like that.

"Sometimes _you_ fucking lose control!" he shouts, throwing his arms wide. "I'll never know about that better than you do." He scowls at Bressie, twists his hands so he's gesturing obviously at his own body, still shower-pink, home to a wolf he never asked for. He's taken it in stride up until now, always looked at what it's given him instead of what it's taken away, but suddenly it feels like a burden.

Bressie steps back as if Niall punched him, stricken. He shuts his mouth abruptly with a click of his teeth and his whole face falls. He nods with a heavy head. "I see," he says, and his voice is rough and quiet. "I—you're right. It's the worst thing I've ever done. Turning you was the worst moment in my entire life, Niall. I hate myself every goddamn day for it." At first it seems like he's going to say more; instead he just turns and heads down the hall to his room, leaving Niall with a racing heart and a sick, empty feeling in his stomach.

Niall stands in the doorway to his room for a long moment, hand clenched tight on the doorjamb. Eventually he manages to get himself into a pair of shorts and a t-shirt and gets into bed, the sheets sticking to his clammy skin, the back of his neck unpleasantly damp against the pillow. He doesn't fall asleep.

*

In the coming week Niall has several songwriting meetings and band decisions to make, and he ends up working almost a nine-to-five schedule like a normal person in the real world. He drives to the studio in the morning, orders lunch from a drawer full of takeout menus in the afternoon, and drives back home in the evenings. The label would send him a car, of course, if he asked for one, but he feels almost as free and alive when he's driving as he does when he's galloping through the woods, tongue lolling and tail wagging, at Bressie's side.

Bressie's usually awake and out for his own run, trainers gone from their spot by the door, by the time Niall gets up in the mornings. When he comes home at night, Bressie is shut in his room at the other end of the hall. Tension prickles through the entire house and makes Niall restless and uncomfortable where he's supposed to feel safest. He skypes with his mates back home and sometimes Willie and the lot in Australia if they're up early to surf or camp or something other than the indolent life of sleeping 'til gone midday. It feels perfunctory, though, like Niall's just going through the motions in a way he hates.

It wouldn't matter so much if going to work were a relief, an escape, as it often used to be. Niall is so glad to see the lads, but it's just another thing sitting squarely on his shoulders, weighing him down.

"Why aren't you coming to the match tomorrow?" Louis asks one afternoon, shoving his phone in Niall's face. Their group Whatsapp is open, and Niall's response saying he can't make it looks curt compared to the long ramble from Liam that preceded it. Liam himself looks over with vague interest from where he's playing One Direction QuizUp on the sofa. He's ranked 28th in the UK.

Niall shrugs, feeling the drain of the full moon starting to fray him. "Got plans," he says, grinning and waggling his eyebrows.

"With your _friend_?" Harry asks, and he sounds innocent but there's a wicked glint in his eyes.

Niall laughs nervously, rubs at his thighs through his joggers. His bones are starting to ache and everything seems distant, foggy, compared to the inexorable pull of the moon on his blood cells, on every hair of his arms and legs as if he has constant goosebumps.

For one sick moment he thinks John must've told Harry about the other night. But he can see John's head lift almost imperceptibly on the other side of the room where he's on a conference call with Julian, feels him suck in a sudden breath, so that must not be it. "Brez? Christ, no, it's not like that. You know it's not." Harry shrugs and snaps his gum. "Just have shit to do, don't I? I'll chat you after."

The boys drop it but Niall's guts still churn. The distance between them is palpable to him, all the more unsettling because he's the cause of it this time. Zayn hadn't gone off the grid with Louis, Harry hadn't taken a separate plane from the rest of them. He can feel them trying to reach him and instead of running to them he retreats. He gnaws at his thumbnail and jiggles his knee as he looks at the scribbles of lyrics in front of him at the table.

He can't think of anything that rhymes with "isolation".

*

The worst part about the advent of the full moon is how unstable Niall is, down the very center of himself that he didn't think existed outside of Harry's attempts to teach him yoga. He always seems to be at loose ends even when he's working on a project he needs to get done. He can't concentrate. He finds himself staring into space rather than thinking anything in particular, flighty in his heart like he hasn't been since the band started and he found a purpose.

He thought Bressie might come around once it got closer to the change, but they've barely exchanged half a dozen words. They still miss each other more days than not, probably by design, and when they do see each other—in the kitchen, or the driveway when they're both coming home at the same time—Bressie squares his shoulders and looks straight ahead, blanking Niall utterly.

It's crushing, though Niall can feel the turmoil bubbling around Bressie, can tell he isn't thriving with the distance between them just like Niall isn't. That doesn't matter so much when it still leaves Niall feeling unmoored and confused.

The last day Niall's in the studio before he gets ready for the change is the hardest. A tinge of panic colours everything, sets him on edge. He can't get comfortable, hot all through his torso and hips and arse. Niall finds himself counting to ten over and over in his head, reciting football stats to himself, anything to try and get on solid ground.

"Hey, Nialler," John says with a strained grin, patting the open seat next to him in the control room. Niall jumps at the sound of his voice but slides onto the couch right away, slumps down a little just out of instinct, looking up at John. David hasn't been around as much lately, and the glint in John's eye gives Niall an idea why. He tries not to feel anything at the thought of that possessiveness, stomach curdling but omega heart skipping a beat.

"Alright?" he asks, keeping his voice steady.

John raises his eyebrows, gives Niall a once-over that makes him feel naked. "I'm alright, but I'm not sure about you. Feels like you're gonna snap. Sending out angsty omega vibes all over the place." His nostrils flare and Niall blushes, hates that he's so obvious, doesn't know how to stop. He shrugs, irritated, and doesn't say anything, teeth pressed tight together. "Need someone to change with, don't you, little wolf?" John puts a comforting hand on the nape of Niall's neck, rubbing at him, firm and warm. Niall tries his hardest not to melt, the response rippling all along his spine in soothing waves almost like when Bressie does it. "Why don't you come to mine tomorrow, we'll do it together?"

"Seems kind of—intimate, doesn't it?" Niall asks, going for cheeky. No one but Bressie has ever seen him as a wolf. He lifts his chin but doesn't shake off John's hand.

John just laughs. "I had my tongue in your ass, and this is what you're worried about?"

"Guess not." Niall's embarrassed but he doesn't show it, clamps down on the wet heat that surprises him at the mention of what they did.

"I've got a friend with a place out in Redbourn—acreage, quiet. It'll do us better than my hotel room. I'll text you the address."

"Thanks," Niall manages, clinging to the offer of support, to something that feels like it could be pack in a place where there's been a yawning hole in him for weeks. "I'll be there."

*

Niall sneaks out at night when Bressie's not home, his trainers gone from beside the door again. He scrawls a hasty note and leaves it on Bressie's door: _gone out, changing with john in redbourn. back after the moon._ It rankles though, guilt sitting hot in his joints and belly—Bressie will be worried, silent treatment or not.

The house in Redbourn is sturdy and old, red brick and leaded windows and separate outbuildings. A high fence circles the entire property. It all smells damply of hay and dog, and it settles comfortingly in Niall's nose, smooths out all the new scents he has trouble ignoring this close to the moon. "Sick," he says, grinning when John comes out to meet him in the driveway.

John laughs, claps him on the back. He's looking a bit drawn, too, his smile brittle, face sallow compared to his usual LA brightness. "C'mon in."

It's dark already, silvery moonlight casting shadows from the trees and fences over the fields. Niall looks out at it, his knees folded up to his chest, perched on a club chair under a window in the den. John's poured him a pint of a beer he doesn't immediately recognise, pale and watery, and Niall's acutely aware of him standing on the other side of the room.

At this point with Bressie, Niall would be tense as well, as they always are waiting for the moon. Bressie would change with him early, they'd scuffle and play. He doesn't know how to suggest that to John, doesn't know how it would go over to say something like, _Well, the alpha I live with and I usually do things differently._ It seems rude, makes him want to roll over and show his belly just thinking about it.

John stalks closer, pacing the room like he's as unsettled as Niall is. "Where's your pack, then?" Niall asks, hoping to get them both relaxed and talking. "How'd you turn?"

John stops by Niall's chair, sighs deeply. "I'd rather not reminisce," he says, and Niall snaps his mouth shut. John pushes a hand through Niall's hair, and Niall tries to hold still, torn between jerking away and leaning closer.

"What would you rather do?"

John raises his eyebrows and pushes his glasses up his nose. "Well. I can think of a couple things. Although maybe we'll save it for after the change, shall we?"

Niall shifts in his chair, hugs his knees tighter to his chest as he feels his dick starting to press against his flies. "Maybe," he says, and John nods encouragingly.

Eleven o'clock comes and goes and Niall is jittery and sick-feeling in a way he hasn't been since his first moon. John types sporadically on his laptop in the corner, but Niall can't bring himself to focus on anything long enough to do the same. "I think I'm just gonna go ahead and turn? If that's alright?" he manages, rubbing at his forearms even though it doesn't do anything to soothe the itch under his skin. He's clueless about the etiquette here, but it's getting unbearable.

"Sure you can," John says, looking up. His eyes are tired. "I'll join you in a minute."

Niall spends the rest of the time before midnight pacing the house as a wolf, John beside him, occasionally nosing at him, presumably trying to keep him calm. It doesn't feel right here, though, and there's not much he can do.

The change happens differently when he's already a wolf—with Bressie it's barely perceptible, but tonight it's like gears grinding, his mind unslotted from his body as soon as the clock strikes twelve. He struggles to keep his wits about him, and John circling him, nudging at him, only makes it worse. An alpha, not _his_ alpha, trying to keep him in line just pulls the wolf up faster, too fast for him to manage. Without his pack it's him against himself, and he makes a break for it out the half-door in the kitchen, not even an alpha having a chance of catching him.

Outside he races to the back fence, sniffs frantically until he finds a loose board in it. He claws and tears at it with his teeth until it snaps, the alpha audible racing towards him. He wriggles through the space like an eel and makes a break for it across the neighbouring fields. Niall doesn't know where he is, place names lost to him in the miasma of smells and the feel of his paws eating up the ground beneath him as he runs as fast as he can. The alpha's behind him, trying to keep up. Niall's younger and faster, though, and the inexorable pull of _home_ urges him onward, frantic energy outstripping the alpha's attempt to corral him.

The lights and sounds coming from the roads and the warm smells of people in their homes help guide him, and he doesn't tire. The moon sinks closer to the horizon as he runs, the woods becoming familiar already by the time he can tell time has even passed, focus narrowed now to the faded scent of himself, where he's been through these trees before, territory he knows.

The other alpha has dropped back, stopped giving chase, but Niall's own alpha is close, now. He can feel it, sense safety waiting for him. There's a hectic rustle and the rush of a wolf coming towards him, not far from the fence around his home, and _pack_ thrums wildly through him, perks his ears and sets his tail high and wagging. Everything slots back into place, the ease and comfort he was chasing enveloping him.

They come together in a clash of fur, alpha snarling, kicking and pawing at him until they tussle, slavering. Niall whimpers when his alpha sets his teeth to the scruff of his neck, to the tender tip of his nose, and he's cowed, rolls onto his back showing his belly. The alpha's jaws turn soft then, the pawing nothing but playful batting, bites giving way to grooming.

*

Niall wakes up and it's almost as if no time has passed at all since his first night as a wolf, so many moons ago. He barely remembers last night's change at all, eyes still closed, a fog of confusion wrapped snug around him. It smells like home, though, and the warm, heavy weight pressed along his back is Bressie: his alpha, his family. They're curled together like the first moon at Bressie's house, Niall's heart beating slow in time with his. The shag carpet in his living room tickles at the bare bottoms of his feet.

"Morning," Bressie says, tentative, but his arm is strong around Niall's belly, holding him close. Niall wants to turn in his grip, but he doesn't, just takes a deep breath, relief humming in his limbs and chest, the ache of their fight and ongoing tension falling away at last.

Niall puts his hand over Bressie's. "Sorry," he says, then sighs heavily. "God, I'm so fuckin' sorry."

Bressie's other hand runs up Niall's side, and he shivers though Bressie's draped him in the blanket from his couch. "No, pup. I'm the one should be apologising. I'm a gobshite for pushing you away like that. So wrapped up in feeling sorry for myself, I thought it would be better for you if I just left you alone."

"You're my pack," Niall says softly, and finally opens his eyes, pulls his blanket closer around his shoulders. "My alpha." His voice is croaky and he wouldn't be sure Bressie could even understand him except that he clutches Niall tighter, presses his nose and mouth to the back of Niall's neck. Niall shivers, and Bressie must feel it against his body.

"I know. I know, I was an idiot. I'm so happy you're here, now. That you're safe and with me and all."

Niall's heart thumps and he presses his nose to what he can reach of Bressie's arm, takes deep breaths of him. "Me too," he says, muffled, mouth pushed against Bressie's bicep.

"Don't know what I'd do if something had happened to you, chief." Bressie's voice is soft, a bit thick in his throat. His hand comes up, cupping Niall's chin and turning his head, guiding the rest of his body to turn as well so they're face-to-face. His arm is still wrapped around Niall's waist, thumb stroking absently at the curve of his hip. Niall just looks at him for a heavy moment, drinks him in.

It's everything Niall never felt with John, or with David. He's never been safer or calmer, more sure of himself and where he is. His body is alight, too—it's impossible to ignore how turned on he is. Everything in him strains towards Bressie, his dick embarrassingly hard under the blanket, between his legs wet with omega-slick. The fact that Bressie's wearing a t-shirt and joggers seems like a personal affront; Niall wants nothing more than to press as close as he can to his alpha, skin-to-skin.

Instead he tilts his face up, one hand going around the back of Bressie's neck as Niall presses their lips together. Bressie's so responsive, kisses back soft and sweet and so good it makes Niall's breath catch and his belly clench. Bressie's hand tightens at Niall's waist, firm, holding him closer for just long enough to make Niall whimper in the back of his throat, barely audible.

Bressie pulls away suddenly, their lips making a slick noise as they part, Niall's body tingling where Bressie's hands were once they're gone. "We can't. I can't do this," Bressie manages, sounding choked. Niall sits up, blanket pooling around his hips, one hand tightening in it to keep it from falling open. He tilts back in towards Bressie, but one big hand is against his chest, keeping him at arm's length.

"No," Niall starts, but more words don't come. He leans against Bressie's hand on him, wraps his fingers around Bressie's wrist like it's a lifeline.

Bressie turns away, looks out the plate glass door on the other side of the sofa instead of at Niall. "We can't do this when you're not my mate, Niall. I don't think I could handle that."

"Knot me then," Niall says, breathless just saying it. "Mate me." His heart thuds and he clenches, leaning harder against Bressie's hand.

Bressie looks back at him, wrecked at first, lips slack and eyes wide, colour high on his cheeks. He sets his mouth after a moment, though, firm. His fingertips curl in against Niall's chest. "No," he says, and it's rough, low. He clears his throat. "I want to keep you safe and mine forever—of course I do, any alpha would. But I already stole your whole fucking life from you by biting you. I can't take away your chance to choose what you do now. You need to be able to pick who your real pack is, and I can't—I can't take advantage of the fact that I turned you. That I'm all you know."

Niall loves him fiercely in that moment, but he furrows his brow and makes an indignant noise. "You're not, though. And you didn't steal my whole life from me. This, being a wolf—it's amazing, Bressie. Shit, I've got _superpowers_. I've got a family, this sense of belonging and history that I can feel in every part of me when I'm with you. When I'm with other wolves, even. It's like being in the band all over again, you know?"

Bressie gets up, putting distance between them when that's the last thing Niall wants. The clear happiness of waking up together is sloughing off and Niall can feel Bressie's self-loathing again, a cloud over him making him withdraw not just from Niall but from his own wolf.

"What if I want to stay with you?" Niall asks, getting up, following after Bressie. He needs Bressie's experience and protection, and in return Niall can give back all the strength he gets from being a wolf, all his positivity and joy. "What if it doesn't feel right with anyone else because you _are_ my real pack? The pack I choose?"

"Are you asking or telling?" Bressie says, shoulders back, wearing _alpha_ like a mantle.

"Telling," says Niall, and before he can make another move, Bressie has a hand around his waist, the other at his jaw, thumb brushing against his lip.

"I love you, you know," he says, and tilts Niall's face up, a careful finger curled under his chin, eyes bright. Bressie leans down to kiss him, thoroughly and gently. He tastes how he smells when Niall is a wolf—like pack, like his best friend, like where Niall belongs. He loops his arms around Bressie's neck, pulling himself closer, up on his tiptoes so he can kiss deeper, slide his tongue against Bressie's.

He feels the kiss in his whole body, skin tingling everywhere they touch, light-headed with how much he wants Bressie, the pull of an alpha holding him and kissing him indistinguishable from the soul-deep feeling he already has for him.

"I know," he responds, finally pulling away, a hand carding through the short hair at the nape of Bressie's neck. "Love you, too. Always have, now I think of it."

It startles him for a second when Bressie hitches him up off the ground, one big hand at his thigh and the other at his waist, bringing them level so he can kiss him again. Niall's bare feet dangle and he laughs into it, wriggling his toes, Bressie's lips smiling against his.

The angle's better, of course, and Niall's dick chubs up under the blanket which seems more and more superfluous the more they make out. He slides his legs around Bressie's waist, the blanket pushing up along his thighs, and rocks his hips so his dick rubs through it, pressed tight against Bressie's belly.

"Christ," Bressie breathes, and Niall noses at his chin, kisses down his neck. Bressie walks them down the hall and into Niall's room, chucking the blanket away before he tosses Niall onto the bed.

Niall bounces on the mattress, a hand cupped ridiculously over his hard dick, bare skin hot where it's rubbing against the duvet cover, slick hole sensitive already. Bressie's got his own shirt off and joggers kicked away before Niall can even scoot back far enough to look at him.

His body is as close to perfect as Niall has ever seen, tall and stacked with lean muscle, tattoo winding starkly down one arm, dark hair across his chest groomed and tapering down invitingly. His alpha cock bobs in front of him, huge and thick, knotted base already visible just from making out, being with Niall. It's far bigger than John's, and Niall clenches just looking at it.

Looking at Bressie makes Niall self-conscious, like he's small and delicate, though he's stronger now than he's ever been. "Fuck, wouldja look at you," Bressie says, kneeing up onto the bed between Niall's skinny thighs. He looks awed, eyes soft, and he trails one big hand up Niall's side, making him shiver, goosebumps prickling wherever Bressie touches. Bent over Niall he's even bigger, completely covering him, and Niall's never felt safer or more turned on. Bressie's smell surrounds him, and he whines helplessly in the back of his throat, hole twitching, needy.

Bressie leans down to kiss him, hungry this time, demanding, and Niall arches up against him, hands pressed against his chest, the air between them hot and thick with their mingled scents. He spreads his thighs, the crooks of his knees damp with sweat and the creases of his thighs damp with slick. Bressie breaks their kiss, panting, snuffling down Niall's body to his dick. He licks the broad flat of his tongue over it, suckling briefly at the tip until Niall gasps, thrusting into the heat of Bressie's mouth.

It's only a tease, though, and he pulls off with an obscene pop, sucking gently on each of Niall's balls for a few seconds, then tonguing through the smeary mess of his taint to his hole, slick and open and ready for him. He holds Niall open with his thumbs, the blunt broadness of them just barely pushing inside him. Niall whimpers and throws an arm over his face, eyes squeezed shut, muffling himself. He tries to bring his thighs together, feeling so exposed and slutty with Bressie looking at him like that, but Bressie's wide shoulders are in the way and he can't. Bressie just spreads him wider, fingers pushing at the cheeks of his arse. "Let me see," he says. "Gorgeous." He sinks his thumbs in farther, slowly stretching Niall's rim, slick oozing out between them. Niall's breath gets caught in his throat and Bressie pulls back.

"No, please, more," Niall manages, tilting his hips, bearing down on Bressie's thumbs. "Fuck me, please, I'm—please, Bressie, I'll—" he starts, would say anything to have Bressie in him, for real, finally. He feels achingly empty.

"Shh," Bressie says, moving back up the bed so his body covers Niall, his elbow next to Niall's head holding him up. He kisses Niall quiet, murmuring against his lips, "I got you, pup." He brings a hand down to slip three fingers into Niall, Niall writhing against him, wanton. "Want it so fuckin' bad, don't you?"

"Yeah," Niall says, but it comes out more of a whine. He's flushed all down his neck and his chest, and it shouldn't be possible for him to feel needier every time Bressie moves, but he does, and it burns him up.

Bressie squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, like Niall needing him that bad is hard for him to look at, like maybe he's almost as overwhelmed as Niall is. He hitches one of Niall's legs up over his arm, leaning back and pulling his fingers out with a slick squelch to line himself up. The head of his dick is dark pink and huge, wet where his foreskin has pulled back, the slit flexing around a sluice of precome as Niall watches him, mouth watering. "Please," Niall says again, barely audible, clenching around nothing.

Bressie pushes in, cock slipping in Niall's slick at first, the blunt head of it too big for Bressie to guide in with just one hand. He lets go of Niall's leg so he can use his other hand to hold Niall open, pulling gently at his stretched-tight rim as Niall takes him in, easing the way.

Niall holds his breath at first, then lets it go all at once as he bites down on the heel of his hand, belly shivering and muscles jerking as Bressie's cock slides deeper inside him, inch by slow inch. It feels impossibly huge, and the corners of his eyes are wet as he pants, the intense stretch of it coring him, prying him open inside in places he's never felt before.

Bressie noses gently at his damp cheek, at his jaw, at the sensitive skin behind his ear. He kisses Niall between breaths, murmuring sweetly to him. "So good, Niall," he says, barely a whisper, voice as shaky as Niall feels. "You're doing so well, darlin'. Look so hot, taking me like that. Feels so fucking amazing."

When Bressie's knot is snug against Niall's arse, Niall's entire body is strung so tight he feels like he might burst. His teary eyes are shut tight, his own wet, shivery breaths the only sound he can hear. Bressie's heartbeat thrums through Niall's hips, up his spine, and everywhere they touch is hot and buzzing. He wants so badly for Bressie to move, to fuck him hard and deep, but he's afraid he'll fly apart if he does. He can't even imagine taking Bressie's whole knot, not when just his dick feels like this.

"I'm gonna move," Bressie says, lips soft against Niall's ear. Niall nods, or tries to, and then Bressie's cock is dragging inside him, pulling his breath out of him, lighting him up until his hips are canting, thighs spread so far apart they're shaking.

"Oh god," Niall sobs as Bressie pushes back in, picking up a rhythm, one big hand spread against the small of Niall's back, holding him up so he can fuck into him deeper. Niall throws an arm over his head to grip at one of the bars of his headboard, bracing himself and arching his chest up so he can get more of Bressie's cock, clench down on it as Bressie fucks into him, faster and smoother as more of Niall's slick seeps out, copious and dripping down between his arse cheeks.

When he comes it's sudden and overwhelming, the coil of it in his pelvis and where he's stretched around Bressie reaching a crescendo in a sudden moment. He moans with it, the shuddering and clenching of his body making clear what he doesn't have the wherewithal to say.

Bressie hunches over him, fucking him through it, hips pumping into Niall's body, a hand spread around where they meet, fingers smearing wetly around Niall's rim, feeling the pulse and flutter of it as Niall comes. The base of Bressie's knot pushes against him, not able to slip past. "Do it," Niall says. "Please, Bressie—your knot, god—"

With a groan, Bressie slows, pelvis snugged up tight against the backs of Niall's thighs. "Are you sure?" he asks, dipping down to nuzzle their noses together, tender, reminding Niall of when they're wolves. He's trembling, just barely. This will be his first time, too.

"Yes," Niall manages, drained but needing more, and Bressie spreads his fingers apart, Niall open and slick enough now that the base of his knot presses inside him as soon as he does. Niall breathes shallowly, eyes wide and looking into Bressie's.

Bressie eases the rest of his knot in, Niall shivering around it, tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes not from pain but from how overwhelming it is, intense, his whole body oversensitive already from orgasm. Bressie leans down to kiss him gently. "You're alright," he says, low and sweet, reverent, and when he start moving again his knot is fully seated. Niall spreads open around it like he was made for this, the girth of it tugging on him, pulling little hiccupping gasps of breath out of him every time. "Such a good pup," Bressie says, their foreheads touching, and he brings his elbows up to bracket Niall's head, rocking his hips slow and deep. "Think you got another one in you?" Niall nods, pushing his arse up as he feels Bressie's knot locking inside him, Bressie's arms shaking where they're holding him above Niall. "Gonna come," he says, and Niall nods again.

When Bressie comes, Niall can feel his knot expanding, pushing as deep as Bressie can go. He can feel the gush of come in him, Bressie's breath hot and damp against his neck, his pulse racing. "Oh fuck, oh fuck," Bressie mouths, lips against Niall's skin, thrusts erratic now, knot pulling at Niall's insides until he comes again, both of them shaking through it, clutching at each other.

It's a while before they can breathe easy, muscles finally responsive again. Bressie helps turn them over while they're tied together, lifting up one of Niall's thighs and maneuvering until he's spooned up behind Niall, knot still buried deep, arms looped across Niall's belly. Niall falls asleep soon after despite how filthy they both are, sweat and come everywhere, pleasantly full. Bressie's lips are pressed to the nape of Niall's neck, and he's never felt safer.

*

Niall's floats through the next days of the full moon in a happy, fucked-out haze. He doesn't have to be in the studio again until next week, and he and Bressie take advantage of Gemma's services as well as an exorbitant amount of food delivery such that they don't have to leave the house at all, barring wolf romps in the garden.

Niall did dash off a quick _im not dead or imprisond !! it's all good !_ text to John as soon as he remembered, since as far as John knows, Niall's been abducted by the dog catchers and hasn't seen the light of day since before the Redbourn house.

"I'll be seeing John in person tomorrow," he says to Bressie the night before he heads back to the studio. "Probably Souts, too. We have a few different meetings at Sony."

Bressie's making curry in the kitchen, a tea towel tucked in his jeans as a makeshift apron. He catches Niall's eye. "They'll be able to tell."

Niall tilts back in his chair where he's sat at the kitchen table on his laptop. "So what?" he says, grinning, and he feels warm all over.

*

John can, as Bressie predicted, immediately tell that Niall's mated. "Woah," he says, taking a step back when Niall walks into the control room.

Niall grins at him. "I had a busy full moon." He offers John a tupper of I'm Sorry stew, the same kind he made for Bressie when Niall thought he was ill what feels like an eternity ago. "Sorry I ran off like that. It was a weird time for me. And of course I'll pay to fix your mate's fence."

John sniffs at him and laughs, but it's not entirely happy. "Good for you," he says, and shakes his head. "Can't say I'm not disappointed. But I'm also not surprised."

"I didn't really think you would be," says Niall. John takes the stew and sniffs at that, too.

"Sweet consolation prize, though," John says, waving the tupper a bit. Niall laughs.

He sees Souts after lunch at the Sony offices; they're there for a meeting about their next video, and Niall manages to be the first one of the lads there. "Congratulations," David says with a genuine smile. "How's it feel?" He gives Niall a hug, a good solid one.

"Wild," Niall says into David's shoulder, squeezing him. When they part, David claps his hands, rubbing his palms together. "Good, though. Like it was a long time coming. I think I've been sort of waiting for it ever since Brez turned me."

"Between you and me, I'm glad it's not John," David says. He winks, and Niall laughs.

*

After all his meetings are done, Niall sticks around with the boys for a nice catered dinner, courtesy of the label. He takes a car home, and Bressie's in the living room when he gets in, glasses on, book in hand, socked feet propped up on the coffee table.

Niall crawls onto the couch with an _oomph_ , lying on top of Bressie's book, looking up at him. "Hi," he says, stretching.

Bressie slides his glasses up to perch on top of his head. "I was reading that." He pulls his book out from under Niall and tosses it to the other end of the couch. It doesn't have a moon on it, but the title is in French and Niall has done enough googling to know what _loup_ means. "So how was it?"

"Fine," Niall says. "You were right, John and Souts knew right away. It was pretty funny." Bressie laughs, just a huff of breath through his nose. "Had dinner with the lads. It was weird, actually. I wanted so badly to tell Liam how much I can really lift now, when he was talking about his gym routine. And Louis was talking about that charity match he's gonna play next month, and I wanted to tell him how he'd have a wickedly unfair advantage if he got me for his team. Then there's Zayn, who's as good as got a portrait of me tattooed on his leg. And you know Harry won't leave me alone about my sex life, but I could hardly spill the utterly unbelievable details." Bressie looks smug at that, and scritches a hand gently through Niall's hair, petting at him.

"Y'know, pup, you could just tell them."

"I could?" Niall blinks up at Bressie. "That's allowed?"

"You trust them, don't you?" Bressie asks.

"'Course I do," says Niall, and he can feel it in his heart when he says it.

"Well, if I'm your pack, your wolf-family," Bressie says, smiling, "then they're like your human pack. Your brothers. Right?" Niall nods, curling in towards Bressie. "You should tell 'em. You need them as much as you need me."

The next day, Niall has his barbeque cookbook out, flipping through the marinade section with his phone in one hand, open to the lads' Whatsapp group.

 _bbq at mine tomorrow !!_ he sends. _i'm cookin . just the five of us + brez . also got somethin to tell u !_ He adds a steak emoji, a knife and fork emoji, and a wolf emoji.

All four of them say they can come, and Niall shows their responses to Bressie with a hopeful grin.

* 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on Tumblr at [psycholinguistic](http://psycholinguistic.tumblr.com)!


End file.
